


The Garden Path

by Goodforthesoul



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, But that is cool in Regency England, F/M, Florence Nightengaling, Friends to Lovers, Injury, Jon and Sansa are Cousins, Lots of blushing, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-10-18 07:33:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17576585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goodforthesoul/pseuds/Goodforthesoul
Summary: Sansa Stark was everything an accomplished young woman should be. Everyone in the capital agreed. She spoke French fluently and with an impeccable accent. Her fingers coaxed mellifluous strains from both the harp and the piano. She painted lovely little landscapes of the fields and forests of her family’s country estate of Winterfell and everyone acknowledged that her embroidery was very fine indeed. She danced with grace and precision, demonstrating mastery of even the most complex of steps, and numerous men swore that they had never spent a set with a better, more charming partner. She read aloud beautifully, in clear, pleasing tones. When she sang, her voice was so sweet that more than one admiring listener compared her to a little bird. She was, of course, also very beautiful, as any truly accomplished woman ought to be.When Sansa's reputation is ruined during her second season and tragedy strikes at home, Sansa Stark has to rebuild her life. She could not have expected that her cousin, Jon Snow, would come to play such an import role in it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to @sweetaprilbutterfly for creating this lovely pic set to accompany this piece.

Sansa Stark was everything an accomplished young woman should be. Everyone in the capital agreed. She spoke French fluently and with an impeccable accent. Her fingers coaxed mellifluous strains from both the harp and the piano. She painted lovely little landscapes of the fields and forests of her family’s country estate of Winterfell and everyone acknowledged that her embroidery was very fine indeed. She danced with grace and precision, demonstrating mastery of even the most complex of steps, and numerous men swore that they had never spent a set with a better, more charming partner. She read aloud beautifully, in clear, pleasing tones. When she sang, her voice was so sweet that more than one admiring listener compared her to a little bird. She was, of course, also very beautiful, as any truly accomplished woman ought to be.

Her first season in King’s Landings had been a dream. She had grown up in the quiet of her father’s country seat, and while there had been dances, wild riotous affairs with flowing ale and loud and rollicking music, with the local lords and landed gentry, those were nothing like the elegant balls of the Capital, where Sansa danced in the chivalrous arms of handsome young men until her slippers were worn through and the hour of the owl approached, sleeping late into the next morning in the soft bed of her family’s manse. During the day, her mother collected cards from Tyrells and Lannisters and Martells and the women of other great and noble houses, who complimented Sansa on her fiery red hair, clear blue eyes, and pretty dresses, and spoke to Catelyn Stark about sons and cousins with vast lands and good incomes.

She had received no less than twelve marriage proposals that first season, though her father had gently refused them all. Some had been from old men, like Lord Baelish, who was a minor lord with a pitiably small holding but a powerful government official, and Sansa would have wept to be matched with him, no matter how good his income, but others had been from some of the dashing young men with whom she had liked dancing best, and she had begged her father to accept. He had told her no, promising that one day, in a few years, he would see her wed to a man who was worthy of her, someone brave and gentle and strong. She insisted that at seventeen she was quite old enough now, that she was out and therefore marriageable, and he had kissed her forehead and told her to wait, to enjoy the next few seasons as a maiden, not a wife.

She cried when they had left the excitement of King’s Landing for the quiet, sleepy North, though her father had assured her that in a year they would return and she would dance the nights away again.

After the bustle and finery of King’s Landing, Winterfell held few charms for her. Everything was so dreary and dull and remote, and she wanted nothing more but to return to the capital with its teeming and streets and shops where they stocked ribbons of every color imaginable. The country was wretched and boring and cold, and she longed for the warmth and excitement of the South.

But the year passed, and Sansa returned to King’s Landing and everyone agreed that she had only grown lovelier, a wild Northern flower, and that even if the fabrics weren’t as fine as what could be purchased in the South, the gowns that she had sown were quite impressive and demonstrated considerable skill. She was an accomplished young woman, indeed, no small feat coming from the backward land of the North as she did, poor thing. Her father’s dukedom was large, but it was so far away from the civilization and style of the South.

At the first ball of the season, Sansa attracted the attention of Prince Joffrey. He danced two sets, a quadrille and a cotillion and a reel and another quadrille, with her, more than any other young lady, including Lady Margaery Tyrell, to whom he was betrothed. A fact that did not go unremarked upon and Catelyn could overhear the gossip whispered by the other women about the Prince’s appetite for pretty young women.

“If the Prince is at the next ball,” she told her daughter, “you may agree to one set with him, so as not to disrespect His Grace, but no more. He showed you too much favor.”

“He is so handsome, is he not?” Sansa replied dreamily, thinking about the Prince’s golden curls and green eyes.

“There are plenty of other handsome men who are not betrothed to the daughter of one of the most powerful families in the Seven Kingdoms.”

Sansa acquiesced, but she spent the days until the next dance wandering listlessly around the Stark’s manse. Her thoughts were full of Joffrey. The gallant way that he had smiled at her and kissed her hand. What a great dancer he had been as he had deftly spun her across the ballroom. How charmingly he had complimented her dress, her hair, her eyes. She was certain that she was falling in love with him and sure that he loved her in return.

Sansa took special care in preparation for the next ball. It was being thrown at Lord Baelish’s manse. Little expense, she had been told, was spared for Petyr Baelish’s parties; he was all too eager to impress society with displays of his wealth. Prince Joffrey was sure to be there, and Sansa was nervous and giddy to see her Prince again and she wanted to look especially beautiful. She selected her best dress, creamy silk with dark blue purple, and had her lady’s maid redo her hair three times until it was perfect.

When she entered the ballroom, he was there, golden and handsome as she remembered and her stomach fluttered in anticipation.

He quickly made his way across the room to her and her mother, bowing and making pleasantries to a few lords who crossed his path, but quickly disentangling himself.

“Your Grace,” Sansa and her mother said in unison as he approached, dipping into deep curtseys.

“Lady Stark,” he greeted her mother with a shallow, but polite, bow. “And Lady Sansa, even lovelier than I remember. I do hope that you’ll save the first cotillion for me.”

“I would be honored, Your Grace,” Sansa said demurely, her eyes lowered and her heart fluttering.

She danced a reel with Lord Dickon Tarly, who was a second son, but broad-shouldered, good natured, and quite handsome, and a quadrille with Lord Dondarrion, a bit old for Sansa’s taste but head of his house and an elegant dancer, though it mattered little for she could think of scant else but her Prince. And then the cotillion began and Joffrey whisked her onto the dance floor and everything glowed with a warm golden light.

When the dance was done, Sansa felt hot and flushed, and the Prince offered her his arm. “Let us walk in the gardens. I find this room too hot and could use the refreshment of the night air.”

Sansa knew that her mother would disapprove of an unchaperoned walk through the Lord Baelish’s gardens, but Joffrey was so gallant and she accepted. She was certain that he was going to tell her that he planned to break his engagement to the Tyrell girl and to ask for her hand because he was madly, passionately, wildly in love with her and he could not bear to wed another. She had been dreaming about this conversation for days and now that it was actually going to happen, she felt flushed, eager and anxious, and overflowing with love for the Prince who stood beside her.

“You dance very well,” he said, as they stepped out of the French doors that led to the garden. Sansa would have felt better had she seen other couples wandering the paths, murmuring words of love and devotion to each other, but the place was empty and silent.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, and then, feeling bold, she added. “It is easy to dance well with a partner such as yourself.”

He smirked and lead her deeper into the hedge maze at the garden’s center.

“Did you know I am to be king, the most powerful man in Westeros, once my father dies?”

“I did, Your Grace.”

“Do you think that the king should not have what he wants?”

This was the moment, Sansa knew, when he was going to confess his attachment, promise to break his engagement, sink to one knee and propose to her. Her heart was in her throat, pounding recklessly. “Of course, Your Grace.”

“Good,” he said, and then his mouth was on hers hard and unyielding. She tried to push him away, but he was too strong and he had her pinned against a hedge, the sharp branches biting into her skin. And then his hand was down the front of her dress, ripping the fabric, and grabbing and pinching. She managed to turn her head away and scream, and then he smacked her, and the force of it sent to her down to the ground. “I thought you would give yourself to me,” he sneered. “But if not, I’ll take it.” She tried to crawl away but he was on top of her, forcing her legs apart, ripping open the front of her dress, exposing her breasts. She screamed again, and he hit her again, and she sobbed and whimpered and begged, but he held her down and pushed apart her legs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Starks return to Winterfell to shelter Sansa and allow her to heal--until more tragedy strikes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the positive reception this story has received. I had not planned on posting the second chapter to quickly, but your kind comments inspired me to finish it. Additional notes at the end.

There were sounds in the garden, distant voice and footsteps that she could barely discern through the ringing in her ears, and Sansa cried out again, and Joffrey leapt away from her. When the guards came, he told them that she had thrown herself at him, had made quite a spectacle of herself, and even with the screams and the rips in her dress and the bruises on her face, the guards said “Yes, Your Grace. Of course, Your Grace.” 

“Someone go get the little whore’s mother,” he commanded. “Before she disgraces herself any further, though that seems impossible given how far she has already fallen,” he continued with a sneer. 

Catelyn put her cloak around her daughter and hurried her to the carriage, Sansa’s dress in tatters, her illusions shattered, and her reputation ruined. And though she did her best to hide her daughter and conceal her shame, Catelyn could feel the eyes of Lord Baelish’s other guests on her, and knew that by the morrow, the gossip would engulf throughout the town faster than wildfire. 

“We have to return North,” she told Ned and Robb, who having begged off the ball, were having a snifter of whiskey after a night at the club. Ned was quietly fuming and Robb was in a rage, loudly declaring that he would challenge the Prince to a duel. 

“You cannot kill the Prince,” Catelyn told her son, “however much I wish you could.” The city guards usually overlooked affairs of honor where young men were concerned, but not when it was royal blood being spilt. 

“Robert will hear of this,” Ned said darkly. 

“And what do you think your dear friend Robert will do?” Catelyn demanded. King Robert was like a brother to her husband, but he had a reputation for hedonism, drinking and frequenting prostitutes and other women of the demimonde, and she thought that it would not be entirely unexpected to learn that, in the past, he had behaved with impropriety similar to that of his son. That was the way of men and kings. “Think, Ned. Joffrey is his son and the boy claims that Sansa dishonored herself.”

Ned glowered. “Any fool could see the truth of it.” Catelyn had taken Sansa to her rooms and put her to bed, though she doubted her daughter was sleeping. Even so, Ned had seen his daughter’s bruised face, her torn and grass stained dress, the emptiness in her eyes. Robb had seen too, and while her husband’s rage was quiet, her son has shattered the glass he was holding against the wall. 

“When it comes to kings and princes, the truth matters little.”

Ned looked down. “You’re right, Cat. And Robert can be a bigger fool than most. What is there to do then?” 

“We should leave at first light. It will be safer for all of us to get out of this city.” She looked pointedly at Robb. At least in the North, he would be prevented from doing anything too foolish and they could protect Sansa from some of the rumors, at least a bit. Here she could not but feel the brunt of them. Catelyn knew what they would say of her daughter. That she was loose, disgraced, wanton, ruined. There would be talk about what a shame it was that Lady Catelyn Tully’s daughter was so wild. But what could you expect? The nobility of the North was so uncivilized, more beasts then men, really. The cruelest among them would whisper the name of Ned’s sister with knowing looks and half-concealed smirks. Really, what could you expect coming from a family like that? 

The North was so far removed from King’s Landing and the Lords with holdings up there cared little for the gossip or politics of capital. In a year or two, when the country had forgotten the scandal, Ned would likely be able to use the influence of his dukedom to make a match for their daughter. Not the brilliant marriage they had hoped for, but a good enough one that she would be well-provided for and protected and perhaps, eventually, happy. 

And so, the Starks left King’s Landing to return to the safety of the North, leaving calls unreturned and proposal unanswered. Not that such pleasantries mattered. By the next afternoon, the offers would be hastily rescinded as the scandal spread.

To Sansa, Winterfell was not a haven, but a punishment, an exile. She would not return to King’s Landing with its dinners and balls and all of the fine people wearing elegant suits and beautiful dresses. But the glitter and shine of the memory had been dulled by that night in the garden, by Joffrey’s hands hard and cold and demanding as he grabbed and tore at her, taking from her everything that she had and everything she had hoped for. She had discovered the rot that had given the fruit its sweetness and now all of it was spoiled. 

At night, she woke in a panic, sweating and shivering as she remembered the prickling hedge and hard earth and the way that the Prince who was no gentleman had hit her, spread her legs, violated her. Some nights she must have cried out because her mother or father would rush into the room and hold her while she sobbed. 

There were a few Northern balls and the family was invited, but usually only Robb went more out of obligation than desire, an ambassador for the family. It would not do to snub their neighbors, especially since they had been kind enough to overlook the scandal and offer an invitation. But none of the Starks much felt like dancing, especially Sansa, who swore she never would again. 

And so the year passed. Sansa grew thin and dull and her hair lost its shine, a ghost of the radiant young woman who had charmed King’s Landing. She stayed mostly to herself, sitting in her room, sequestered from the rest of the family, staring listlessly out of the window and seeing nothing. She blamed herself for what had happened in the garden. She had been reckless, improper, and she had paid the price for it. She had been ruined before Joffrey had kissed her. She had given into temptation and gone into that garden willingly; who would believe that she was unwilling to do more?

Her mother, father, and Robb had all tried to talk to her. Yes, they had admitted, she had been foolish to go with the Prince, but plenty of old and esteemed women had been, in their youth, far greater fools than she, not that they would acknowledge those lapses now that they in the full respectability of age. And even if she had been the most foolish girl in the world, that did not justify what the Prince had done to her. The fault was not her own. She heard them but did not listen. 

When news reached the North that the young prince had wed Lady Margaery in an extravagant ceremony, only to die tragically the next day in a hunting accident, Sansa wept. Not with grief for Prince Joffrey, but with relief that he could never hurt her again. For the first time since Lord Baelish’s house, she felt safe. She left her room and began eating again, and at night, alone and in the comfort of the Lord’s Chambers, Ned and Catelyn expressed their relief that it seemed their daughter might finally recover and be returned to herself. 

And then a fever burned through Winterfell. Bran, Robb, and Ned all took ill, though it appeared that Bran would survive. His body was already weak, a horseback riding accident having taken from him the use of his legs, but somehow, he fought against the sickness and won. He could not, however, fight against the dreams and hallucinations that had visited him during his fever, and he was driven mad by what had seen is his delirium, claiming to see visions of both the future and the past. 

Robb and their father, though, were not so fortunate, both succumbing to illness. Sansa was unable to fathom how her father, who had always been so fit and strong, a soldier and a great lord, and Robb, who not ten months ago had still been campaigning to go to war to avenge her honor, determined to spill Joffrey’s blood for what he had done to her, could both be killed by something so little as a fever. 

Catelyn was last to be taken. She had worked tirelessly caring for her husband and sons. She had kept her girls sequestered, quarantining the sick rooms, only allowing them entry when it was clear that their brother and father were lost, giving them a few moments to say their goodbyes. But Catelyn had stayed by the beds of her husband and sons, holding their hands, cooling their foreheads with damp cloths, doing what she could to make them more comfortable, fighting to preserve their lives. She did not sleep and barely ate and failed again and again, but even when she herself was burning with fever, she stayed by the sides of the men that she loved. And now she would stay by their sides for eternity as she slept beside them in the crypts of Winterfell. It was not tradition for women and children to be buried in the crypts—it was supposed to be a place for lords and kings—but Ned had made an exception for his sister and Sansa and Arya made an exception now. They would not allow their family to be torn any further apart than they already were. 

But separated they were. A month after they had laid their mother to rest, Sansa and Arya received word from Catelyn’s sister, Lysa Arryn, Marchoioness of the Vale. As their legal guardian, she would be sending her steward, Yohn Royce, to collect the younger of the Stark siblings. When Mr. Royce arrive, Arya told him that she and Rickon would not go, especially not without Sansa, that he couldn’t break up their family. He had looked on them kindly and smiled sympathetically, but told Arya that she and Rickon were still under the legal care of their aunt, and would be until they came of age. Until that point, they would be Lady Arryn’s wards. Lady Sansa must stay behind, assume the role of their late mother, and see to the running of Winterfell’s house. He did not mention that Lady Arryn had specified that under no uncertain terms should her disgraced niece be allowed to sully the good name and fine reputation of the Eyrie. But though he did not say it, Sansa knew that she would not be welcome, that the many doors of polite society that were once open to her had been closed. 

In the end, she had bid her sister go and though Arya and railed and huffed, she had messily packed her trunk. Sansa had tearfully kissed her little sister goodbye, promising her that she would find a way for them to return as soon as she could. She ruffled Rickon’s hair and begged him to be good, to mind his Aunty, and he had to pried off of her leg and deposited in the carriage. Sansa had stood in the courtyard and watched their carriage depart, Rickon’s hand and face pressed up against the glass of window and then she had gone into the house that now only held her mad and broken brother and the ghosts of the life she had once believed she would have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for tormenting Sansa a bit more in this chapter. You can blame George for that. But I promise that things will begin to turn around for her. In the next chapter, a handsome young captain in the Night's Watch returns home after a long time away. ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a handsome young officer from the Night's Watch returns to Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for your kind reviews and kudos. You inspired me to ignore coursework and get this next post up sooner than I had hoped.

That was the Winterfell that Jon Snow returned to, an empty, lonely place. The castle was still in deep mourning, an oppressive gloom hanging over the courtyard, a pall settled over the walls, the house shrouded in grief. He had many happy memories having grown up here, but this was not the home of his youth. He remembered the castle bursting with life and laughter as the Stark children played in the courtyard while their parents looked on indulgently. But now all that remained were those faded memories and the ghosts that populated them. 

Sansa had come out to the courtyard to greet him and Jon dismounted and walked in silence to meet her. She wore a frock of dull black, hastily dyed for mourning, her hair pulled back in a simple braid, her eyes were somber and subdued. He had heard rumors about her trouble in King’s Landing, different accounts of the tale, some more believable than others. One version of events said that she had been discovered straddling the Prince, wanton and wild, in the middle of a garden path. Then there were darker, more credible, reports, where the prince tried to take by force what the lady would not give him, and would have succeeded too had he not been interrupted by the fortunate intrusion of the guards, and looking at this girl, whom he remembered as laughing and vibrant, he knew the fact of it. Though he had never truly doubted. Throughout their youth, Sansa had been nothing but a proper lady. 

“Lady Stark,” he had said, bowing. 

“Captain Snow,” she offered him her hand, and he took it gently, a gesture of reassurance and compassion in her grief. She met his eyes, and he was surprised by the cold, the hardness, in them. The girl who had sung songs of love with dewy doe-eyes was nowhere to be seen. The events at Kings Landing and the sickness at Winterfell had changed her from porcelain to steel. 

She was still quite lovely though. The Sansa he had known had had been a very pretty girl; the woman before him was beautiful in a way that all the tragedy and misfortune in the world could not conceal, though it had done its best. 

As children, he and Sansa had not been close. Jon was the illegitimate child of Lord Stark’s sister Lyanna. She had been handsome and headstrong and wild and had run off with a married man during her first season. Ned’s father, Rickard, had brought his daughter home, but not before the man had put a babe in her belly. Lyanna died in childbirth and it was said that Rickard died of a broken heart. Neither of them spoke a word of who Jon’s father had been, some careless lord who had returned to his wife and to King’s Landing society with her person and reputation uninjured. Rumors whispered that he must have been a powerful and important man, indeed, to have escaped Lord Rickard’s violence. Rickard Stark was not reputed to be an even-tempered or forgiving man.

Ned had taken the boy as his ward and raised him as his own. Robb and Bran and Arya had treated Jon like a brother, but Sansa had always stayed somewhat aloof. It wasn’t just that he was a bastard, although he had been certain that the fact of it played no small role in her haughty indifference, but while Arya and the boys played in the dirt and mud of the yard, Sansa was becoming an accomplished young lady. She had no interest in archery or sword fighting and he had no interest in sewing or singing or landscape painting. 

When Jon had been old enough, his uncle had purchased him a commission with the Night’s Watch. Jon had served with distinction and had done well for himself, rising through the ranks, but the fact remained that Jon had been a constant reminder of the greatest shame brought onto the Stark family. In the more recent gossip of King’s Landing, there had been no shortage of comparisons between Sansa and her aunt. Both had been beautiful, much sought after during their first season, and both had disgraced their families. Jon felt pity for his cousin. She might have been a bit condescending and proud at times, but she did not deserve the shame or ostracism she had now endured. The Prince certainly had not been asked to pay the same considerable social price for his misconduct and the far graver sins he had committed. 

“We will be having a simple meal, Captain Snow,” Sansa said. “But you are welcome to join us. I am afraid you will not find our table very fine or lively of late.”

“Thank you for the invitation and for your hospitality, Lady Stark. I was not expecting much in the way of festivities. Winterfell is still in mourning.” He chaffed under the stiff and stilted formality of it all. If Ned or Robb or Arya had been here, it would have been different. Ned would have clapped him on the shoulder, Robb would have embraced him as a brother, and Arya would have thrown herself into his arms and he would have spun her around. But Ned and Robb were gone and Arya sent to the Eyrie and though he and Sansa had been raised in the same home were no more intimate than strangers. “If you excuse me, I would like to pay my respects to your father, your mother, and to Robb.” Jon had been at the front and had not received word of the sickness nor the death until well after they had passed. But now that the regiment had been posted to Wintertown, and Jon could finally say goodbye to the family that had so generously taken him in and then been so cruelly taken from him. 

“Of course, cousin,” she said softly, and he was struck by the sudden thaw in her icy exterior. “I am sorry that you could not have been here to give them a proper goodbye.” 

“I am sorry to have to say goodbye at all. They were good men, and your mother, she cared deeply for her family.” If not for me, he thought but did not say, it was unseemly to cast aspersions on the dead. 

“I trust you remember the way to the crypts. You and Robb played down there enough as children.” 

As boys, the two of them had tested their bravery and attempted to frighten each other by daring to go deeper and deeper into the crypts underneath the castle. When they were older and no longer believed in ghost stories themselves, they attempted to scare the younger children, though Arya was impossible to frighten, Bran far too easy, and Sansa had refused to play. And now all Jon could do was grieve for Robb, who would never leave those subterranean halls again. 

As Sansa had promised, dinner was simple and cheerless affair of roast mutton and stewed greens and root vegetables. The meal had begun with a brown onion soup, which Jon suspected had been hastily added to the menu out of curtsey to him as a guest. 

They ate just the three of them, Sansa, Jon, and Bran who had been carried down from his room by the large stable boy, Hodor. Jon had not seen Bran since his accident and his sickness, and he was struck by the change in the boy. His cousin had always been lively and high spirited, scrambling up trees and climbing the castle walls, which amused his father and did much to agitate his mother’s nerves. But now he was silent, not so much as looking up and greeting Jon, despite Sansa’s urging, cajoling, and remonstrations. 

“We are not usually so small a company,” Sansa said, apologetically. “But Mr. Luwin is unwell and Mr. Poole had to travel to survey some of the estate’s lands and feared he would not return until after we supped. He and his daughter, Jeyne, frequently dine with us.” 

“You were quite close with her,” Jon commented, remembering that Miss Poole had once been the Lady Sansa’s constant companion. 

“We were,” she replied, and it seemed that sickness and shame must have separated them, for now Sansa spoke of her as a distant acquaintance, not a cherished friend. 

“I hope that Mr. Luwin’s illness is not serious,” Jon said, changing the subject to one he hoped would be less painful. Mr. Luwin was an old man, having served as a tutor to all of the Stark children and to Jon. He was a patient, kindly man, who had always dealt firmly but good-naturedly with his rough-housing and inattentive pupils.

“He assures me it is not. Just a bit of chill that comes with the changing of the seasons. Our old Nan is attending to him. She will send word if there is need for a doctor’s attention.” Sansa took a sip of her claret. “How long will your regiment be stationed in the barracks at Wintertown?”

“Our orders did not specify. All indications, though, are that hostilities are reaching their end and a peace will be made.

“What has the war been like?” Sansa asked. “In King’s Landing, Lord Renly Baratheon spoke very gallantly about how glorious it all was.”

Jon grimaced. “And now he is dead and all that glory is worth nothing to him,” he said bitterly. “I know what the songs say about war, Lady Stark, but there is nothing glorious or honorable about it. It is all just horror and death out there on the battle field.”

Sansa was taken aback. The officers she had danced with, the second or third sons of major houses, had all been so gay and lighthearted, speaking blithely about the war and how they were going to lick those Wildlings once and for all. None of them had spoken of death and horror, none of them had looked at her with sad and haunted eyes. 

“It is not your fault that she is dead, you know.” Bran said, the first words he had spoken that evening. 

Jon shifted uncomfortably and Sansa asked, “What do you mean, Bran?” But neither man answered her and they lapsed into an awkward silence, Jon and Bran both staring intently at their food and avoiding her eyes and each other’s. 

Sansa watched Jon Snow as he ate and she picked at her food, having long ago lost any appetite. He had grown to be quite handsome, she observed with disinterest. And had he been anyone else she might have found him rather dashing in the rough way that some officers had, though he was not the type of man she generally fancied. His hair had grown longer since the last time she had seen it, and he wore it tied back. A long scar stretched from his forehead to his cheek, though she dared not ask how he had come by it. He had also grown a beard and certainly looked more a man than he had when he had left for his service, a skinny seventeen-year-old boy with unkempt curls and dreams of combat, honor, and glory. Now he was a soldier of four and twenty and he had seen combat and had learned that there was no honor or glory in it. Only brutality and death. There was something sadder, grimmer about him. His eyes had a look to them that reminded her of what she saw when she looked in the mirror and she wondered what, and whom, he had lost. 

They had, it seems, both learned about the lies of songs. 

“I hope that you will return and dine with us again, Captain Snow,” Sansa said as she bid Jon good night. He had made his excuses right after dinner and she understood why he wanted to leave the gloomy halls of his former home, which had become a place for ghosts, both living and dead. 

“I would be honored, Lady Sansa. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“It is what they would have wanted.” She did not say who and did not need to. He bowed slightly, wondering if it was what she wanted or if he was simply another burden to endure. “Do come again soon,” she said as she dipped into a shallow curtsey and they bid each other goodbye.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sansa receives a letter from Arya; Sansa and Jon ride in the Wolfswood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all of the comments and kudos! You inspired me to do a bunch of work on this while my partner was watching the Super Bowl. :)

Jon did call again a few days later. Standing before the statues of Ned and Robb in the crypts beneath Winterfell, he had made a promise to look after the remaining Starks and he intended to keep his word as well he could. The Bran he had teased and indulged and laughed with was gone and he had never been close to Sansa, but so long as he was in Wintertown he would try to call once or twice a week to see how his cousins faired. 

As Sansa had said, dinners were a bit livelier with Mr. Luwin, Mr. Poole, and Miss Poole. Both men had known Jon since he was a boy, and they shared stories about some of the antics that Jon, Robb and Arya had gotten up to as children. Jon noticed that Sansa smiled courteously, but not truly. And he was a bit uncomfortable with flirtatious giggles that Miss Poole directed at him, as well as the forwardness of her manner, the way that she fluttered her eyelashes and touched his arm when she was seated beside him. She had been in desperately enamored with Robb, he remembered, and now she seemed to have transferred her affections to him. She too had asked him about the glory of the war and had told him that he must be awfully brave to have fought in it. And he had politely replied that he was glad that the war was coming to an end and had foreclosed any more talk of bravery, honor, and glory. 

One night Sansa told Jon that she had received a letter from Arya and invited him to stay after dinner. They retired to library and she pour him a brandy and herself a sherry. It was improper for an unmarried man and woman to be alone, especially at such an hour, she thought idly, but she was ruined already, so what did it matter? Besides, who would know or care what happened behind the closed doors of a lonely castle so far North? Manners were loser, more familiar, up here, than in the South, her mother had always said. And it was only Jon. They had been raised under the same roof and had, to all the world, seemed to grow up as siblings, no matter what her private thoughts on the matter might be. Though all that had not stopped Mr. Luwin from giving her a very stern look when she had proposed their meeting. Fortunately, she and Jon both had practice in ignoring their tutor’s stern looks and admonitions

“What does she say?” asked Jon, after taking a sip of brandy. 

“Mostly that she is unhappy.” Sansa handed him the missive. 

The letter was full of invective again Lady Arryn, who Arya maintained was the stupidest, most dreadful woman in all seven of the kingdoms, no in all the world. Arya was expected to change for dinner every night, even if it was just a family meal, and their aunt was constantly critiquing her appearance and dress and correcting her table manners. Plus, she had hinted that she had designs to marry Arya to her son, Robin, who was almost as dreadful as his mother. He was a weak, sniveling, sickly little boy and he had been teasing Rickon, who at four, was really little more than a baby, about the deaths of his mother and father. Rickon had started crying and Arya had pushed Robin and told him that he was one to talk because his father was dead too. He had run sobbing and tattling to his mother and Lady Arryn had told her niece that not only was it unbecoming for a lady to roughhouse with boys, but that it was not noble to pick on those littler than her, Robin being four years her junior. When Arya had pointed out that Robin was thirteen and Rickon only four, so if anyone had been picking on someone smaller, really it had been him, Lady Arryn had called her a vicious little monster and Arya had been sent to her room without supper. 

Jon grinned as he finished the letter. “Lady Arya has not been much altered.” 

“No. Arya is as head-strong and defiant and determined to be difficult as ever.” 

“Rickon is lucky to have her.” 

“She’ll do her best to keep him safe and as happy as possible in that horrid place with that disagreeable woman and her son.” Sansa had met Lady Arryn once, and while her aunt had little to critique in Sansa’s manner or deportment, she had disliked the way that her aunt had petted her. It had made her feel like a little girl even though at the time she was fifteen, only two years shy of being out. 

“Is there nothing we can do?” 

“I am not sure that there is. Aunt Lysa is her legal guardian. I have Mr. Poole looking into the matter, but so far, he has not given me much hope. Arya is old enough that she could petition for a new guardian, my Uncle Edmure perhaps, but Rickon would have to remain at the Eyrie and under my aunt’s care until one of us marries or comes of age, and I do not believe Arya would leave him to suffer alone for what could be years. It would be one thing if I were wed or if Bran were of age…” she trailed off. “But perhaps you could write to Arya, give her some comfort and reassurance. She always loved you best of all.” 

Jon did write to Arya and he started making his trips up to Winterfell more frequent, arriving earlier in the day and walking the grounds with Sansa. She was different from the aloof girl he remembered, quieter, sadder, humbled. She was withdrawn, but no longer haughty. They did not talk much, but he offered her his arm she took it lightly. And he now made a habit of staying after dinner, too. He would have a brandy with Mr. Luwin and Mr. Poole before going through to where Jeyne and Sansa were waiting. They would play cards or Sansa would read aloud or play the piano, though she no longer sang, which was a shame because he remembered her having a lovely voice. 

One afternoon, he entered the courtyard of the castle and heard an argument between Sansa and Mr. Poole. It was an unusually warm winter day, especially for the North, crisp rather than cold, and the sun, though weak, was bright. 

“I wish to ride. I need the fresh air, the exercise. It is dreadful being cooped up day after day.” 

“I am not sure it is wise, my lady. Business keeps me from accompanying you and Hullen and Harwin cannot be spared. I cannot in good conscious allow you to go on your own. It is not safe. A lady such as yourself requires an escort.”

“I require no such thing,” she sniffed. 

“I will escort Lady Stark,” Jon said, interrupting the dispute. Mr. Poole seemed about to object, but his concern for Sansa’s person apparently took precedence over that for her honor, so he acquiesced and the matter was settled. “I will see to having your horse saddled,” Jon said, striding toward the stables.

“Thank you, Captain Snow,” she replied. 

As Jon entered the barn to ask Hodor to saddle Sansa’s horse, a pretty, good-tempered dappled mare named Lady, he heard the heavy step of Mr. Poole. 

The steward handed Jon a pepper-box pistol. “I trust you know how to use this, lad.” 

Jon smiled grimly. “They might have taught me a thing or two about it in the Night’s Watch.” 

“There have been rumors of highway men in the Wolfswood, possibly deserters from the Watch. See to it that you keep yourself and Lady Stark safe.” 

“Yes, sir.” Jon responded. “I will protect her. You have my word.” 

Arya had refused to learn to ride sidesaddle, but Sansa did so gracefully. Her riding habit was a deep shade of blue with an embroidered wolf across the bosom, and Jon realized that this was the first time since his return to Winterfell that she was not in black. 

“Is that a new dress?” Jon asked as he remounted his horse.

“I am afraid it is rather an old one.”

“I like the wolf bit,” he said awkwardly. 

“Thank you,” she replied, before racing out of the courtyard and sparing him the need to say more. 

She was a good rider, delicate with Lady’s head, gently directing the mare down their path, and softly speaking encouragement to her. Jon had learned that you could take the measure of a man by the way he treated his mount, and as his horse, a sleek black gelding named Crow, trotted beside hers on an easy, winding path through the Wolfswood, he supposed that applied to women as well. 

“Is it not a beautiful day for a ride, Captain Snow?” she asked. 

“It is, Lady Stark. Though I cannot help but remember how beautiful these woods are in spring and summer.”

“They are lovely. And I know of some delightful spots for a picnic. Do you believe that you will remain in Wintertown into the summer?”

He and Robb used to run wild through the Wolfswood, pretending to be knights how had to fight giants and dragons and go on all manner of quests. Sometimes Arya would tag along with them, but she was always sore when Robb told her that she had to be their squire, that she was too little for knighthood. And besides, girls could never be knights, anyway. She would spit back that both Robb and Jon were too little to be real knights too and that girls could do whatever they wanted and better than stupid boys. 

“I hope so,” Jon said, realizing how true the words were. He had grown accustomed to his visits to Winterfell, to his evening with its inhabitants, it would grieve him to have to give it up. 

“I hope so, too, cousin,” Sansa said, and then spurred her horse ahead of him. 

He was racing after her, admiring the auburn hair that, having come lose from its pins, streamed out behind her, the flush of her cheeks. It was the first time that he had seen her happy, had seen her truly smile. Here in the woods she was no longer oppressed by the gloom of the castle and the society that had rejected her. Here she could be the young woman she was raised to be, elegantly poised as she perched on her saddle, radiant with high color in her cheeks and a flash in her eyes. 

Jon was so caught up in watching Sansa that he nearly ran into her when she stopped abruptly before a large fallen tree that blocked the path. He pulled up short along side her. 

“It must have fallen during the last storm,” Sansa said, patting her horse’s neck to steady her. “Lady could have easily jumped it, but it took me by surprise.” 

“Its falling was the fault of no storm,” Jon said, noting the axe marks, the work of men, not nature. 

“Very astute.” They heard a rough voice behind them. “I say, Rast, this lordling’s not as dumb as the usual lot.” 

“Bet he’d die as easy, though, Tanner,” Rast replied. Both men were holding pistols, Rast’s trained on Jon, the Tanner’s pointed as Sansa. They wore the ragged uniforms, more grey than black, that marked them as deserters. 

“My Lady, behind me,” he said as he moved his horse forward. “We do not want any trouble,” he called out to the two men. 

“Neither do we,” Tanner said, “but we do want your horses. And any trinkets or coin you and the lady have on you.” 

Sansa’s hand went up to the dragonfly pendant that hung around her neck. “We will give you what coin we have, but not our horses.” Her voice was clear and defiant and contained no small measure of the haughtiness Jon remembered. 

“You’ll give us what we ask for, girl, or we’ll kill you and the boy,” Rast shook his gun menacingly. “Don’t think we won’t. We’ve both killed for less.” 

Jon fingered the pepperbox pistol in his pocket, calculating, coming up with a strategy. He had faced worse odds, but then he had only himself and his fellow soldiers to worry about. 

“I have killed, too.” He said gruffly, drawing the revolver from his pocket and shooting the man aiming at Sansa, the bullet tearing through his throat. Jon spun the barrel and shot at the other man, but not before he felt hot, searing pain shoot through his thigh, intense and blinding, and he held onto consciousness long enough to see the man fall and then he was falling, sliding into darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon cared for by an old friend and a devoted cousin.

Jon woke to a throbbing in his leg, a damp cloth on his head, and a soft hand in his. He suddenly remembered the woods and the bandits and the gun pointing at Sansa. Sansa. Panic filled him and he called out her name. 

“I am here, Jon,” she said, squeezing his hand. “Thank the gods you survived.” 

“Are you unhurt?” he asked her. “They did not harm you?” 

“I am fine. It would have been difficult for them to hurt me. You ensured that they were quite dead before going unconscious.” 

“How long was I…” 

“Three days. I was… we were so worried about your recovery.” With her free hand, the one that was not in his, she dabbed his forehead with the cloth. “You had a fever and your leg…” she trailed off. “But Dr. Tarly assured us that you would come through it alright. He promised me that you are a difficult man to kill and that you have been in far worse scrapes than this.” 

“Dr. Tarly? Sam?” 

“Yes. The physician serving with your regiment. I should fetch him. He will want to know that you have awakened.” She made to get up from the chair beside the bed in which she was sitting, but Jon tightened his grip on her hand. 

“I will only be gone a moment, Jon,” she gently reassured him and he reluctantly let her go. 

She returned a few minutes later with Dr. Samwell Tarly. Sam was a kindhearted and intelligent man, and though he claimed to be a coward, Jon had seen him save men’s lives by amputating legs on the battle field. The physician did not realize that it took more courage to saw off the arm of a man you knew than to shoot at a stranger. 

“It is good to see you awake, Jon,” Sam exclaimed as he entered the room. 

“I presume that it is thanks to you that I am, Sam.”

“Not entirely. Lady Stark was the first to save your life. Had she not slowed the bleeding I am not sure that you would have made it home.” 

Sansa had watched in shock and horror as Jon slid from his saddle. From her seat on her horse, she had been unable to discern where the bullet had struck, and she feared the worse. After taking a moment to collect herself, she dismounted. She found him breathing but his leg bleeding badly. She had ripped the bottom of her petticoat to make a tourniquet and bind the wound. When the bleeding had slowed, she had struggled, using strength she did not know she had, and somehow managed to maneuver Jon across his horses back, securing him as best she could. 

“I did not think women even knew how to do that sort of thing,” the doctor continued, his cheeks turning bright pink with a blush. “Meaning no offense, my Lady.”

“None taken, Dr. Tarly. I suppose that is not an accomplishment of which most young ladies can boast. But having Lady Arya for a sister offered me quite an orthodox education.” She smiled at Jon.  
“Thank you, Sansa.” 

His look was so earnest, so intent, and she felt a flush come into her cheeks. “I do believe that your heroics saved me first, Jon. And I thank you for that.” 

“Lady Sansa has been at your side practically the whole time you have been unconscious,” Sam said. “The only way I could convince her to leave to get some food or sleep was by promising her that I would stay with you while she was gone.” 

Sansa looked at the floor, knowing that he flush was deepening to a very unbecoming shade of red. “I did not want you to be alone. In case you woke up or you had need of something…” When she looked up, her eyes locked with his, holding them while she searched for what to say. 

Fortunately, Dr. Tarly intervened. “I should examine the wound,” Sam said. “It was a bit infected and you had a touch of fever, but I believe that the worst has past. But if you will excuse us Lady Stark, I will call for you when the examination is complete.”

“Of course,” she said, and ducked out of the room, Jon’s eyes lingering on her while she left. 

Sansa had rarely been cruel to him as a boy, or at least no crueler than other children, but she had never been warm. Cold, in fact, as the Northern winds of her home. But the way she had looked at him when he had woken, there was only warmth in her eyes, her touch, her blush, and Jon, to his surprise, found that he rather liked it. 

“How is it you came to be my physician?” Jon asked Sam in a relatively unsuccessful attempt to banish thoughts of Sansa, how pretty she looked when she blushed, and the fact that he had not wanted to let go of her hand, had not wanted her to leave, if only for a moment. 

“It is a funny story, actually,” Sam said as he examined Jon’s injury. “You see, when Sansa brought you back to Winterfell, slung over your horse the way you were, Mr. Poole urged Hullen to make haste to Wintertown for a doctor. But the family’s usual physician, Dr. Pycelle was in the pub, already quite, erm, inebriated. Luckily some of the less temperate of our lads were there as well, and they rushed down to the barracks to request that I ride for Winterfell. Which of course I did, so now here I am.” 

“Glad to be in your hands.” 

“From what I have heard,” Sam said conspiratorially, “Dr. Pycelle is not the finest physician when sober. He was quite indignant to be passed over, but I understand that the boys were quite convincing when they explained the situation to him.”

“I am sure they were.” Jon chuckled.  
“Lady Stark told me what happened in the Wolfswood. You knocked your head pretty good when you fell off your horse and the bullet was lodged in your thigh. I removed it, but it did get a bit infected and for a while I was afraid I might have to amputate, but you managed to fight it off. And your temperature seems to have gone down. But Jon,” he paused. 

“Just have out with it.”  
“It fractured the bone. Lady Stark and Mr. Poole helped me set it, but I cannot say whether or not it will fully heal. You may never walk without a limp or without the use of a cane. I have to recommend a discharge due to injury.”

Jon exhaled and closed his eyes. The past seven years he had been a soldier. It was the only thing he had ever been in his life except for a bastard, and now that had been taken from him. “Thank you, Sam. For doing what you could. I owe you a debt of gratitude.” 

There was a light knock on the door and Sam hid Jon’s thigh beneath the bedding. “Come in,” Jon called. And Sansa entered holding a bowl of soup. 

“I thought you might like a bite to eat,” she said, as she placed the soup on the table beside him. 

“Thank you,” Jon said, and he could not help himself but to take her hand again in his and give it a slight squeeze. 

“This injury is going to take some time to recover from,” Sam said. “I recommend at least two months bed rest, maybe three.” Jon groaned, but the physician continued. “The longer you rest, the better the break will heal.” 

Sansa smiled at the chiding tone in his voice. Dr. Tarly was likely used to dealing with irascible patients. 

“Of course, you will convalesce here,” Sansa said. “In Winterfell. At home.”

“He will need considerable attention, my Lady,” Sam started to object.  
“And he will receive it. It is quite out of the question that he should be moved anywhere else.” 

Three months passed slowly, but Sansa was good to her word. She hired another maid, a pleasant girl named Gilly, so as to not overburden the other servants. She was competent, intelligent, a good-natured nurse, and she scrupulously followed Dr. Tarly’s direction. From the way that the physician blushed and stammered when around Gilly, Sansa believed that he might be falling in love with the girl. 

But, even with Gilly, Sansa saw to most of Jon’s care herself. She spent afternoons, reading to him, talking with him as she sewed or embroidered, or playing games of piquet or chess. She had tea and sometimes supper with him, having trays for both of them sent to his rooms. 

One wintery afternoon, winds whipped against the walls of Winterfell and hard pellets of snow clattered against the windows. Sansa was mending one of Bran’s shirts, but her hands were unsteady and when she pricked herself with the needle a third time, Jon asked her what occupied her mind. 

“Oh nothing,” she replied. 

“Sansa, I have watched you sew for what feels like a thousand afternoons, and I have never seen you prick your finger once.” 

She sighed. “Well, if you must know. Lord Ramsey Bolton has asked for my hand.” 

“You must refuse him.” Jon had served with Lord Bolton’s bastard before he had been legitimized and returned to his father’s seat. He was a brutal man. On the battlefield, Jon had seen more than a few men overtaken with bloodlust. It was all part of the madness of the fight, the need to survive. The knowledge that every man dead meant less of a chance of a musket ball in your gut or a bayonet through your throat. But with Ramsey it had been different. He did not want to inflict just death, but also pain. He had relished killing in a way no gentleman should. 

Ygritte had also told him rumors about the women who left his bed, hurrying through the camp in tears, claiming that he had hurt them. If the gossip was true, word has spread though out the village the regiment was occupying and even women of the lowest repute refused his solicitation for fear of what he might do to them. Jon could not imagine Sansa, even this Sansa, so beaten and broken, as one of those girls. Or worse. Because as Ramsey’s wife, she would not be able to leave. 

“I must not.” Sansa replied. “With father and mother and Robb dead and Bran mad, it is the only way that I can get Arya and Rickon home. If I am a married woman, Aunt Lysa cannot deny the return of my sister and brother.”

“But at what cost, Sansa?”  
“It is nothing worse than what I deserve.” She said, her eyes downcast, refusing to meet his. 

“So, you will marry him to punish yourself, then?” 

“What would you have me do instead?” she replied softly, and he could see in her eyes that she was hoping he would offer her some solution, but he didn’t have an answer. 

“I don’t know.” And he saw her deflate. “But I will think of something. I swear to in Sansa, but do not give yourself to that man.” 

“Few other men will have me.”

“Then they are truly idiots,” he said instead. 

“No one wants a ruined girl.” 

“You are not ruined, Sansa. The only way you could ruin yourself if you believe the nonsense they say about it.” 

“You do not understand. That is not the way society works.”

“I grew up my whole life being told that I was a bastard, bad and wrong simply because my mother was unwed. So, tell me what I do not understand. Tell me, Lady Stark, how society works.” He did not mean to yell, but he heard his volume grow with each word. 

“I am sorry,” she said, looking down at her hands sitting listlessly in her lap. 

“No. I am the one who should apologize, Sansa. I should not have spoken so. It was not very gentlemanly of me. Just promise me you will refuse the offer. The thought of you married to a man like him. I do not think I could bear it.” 

“Then I will refuse. And I will find some other way,” she said, and they spoke no more of it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon and Sansa spend a good deal of time together while he recovers.

“Was it from a gentleman?” Jon asked her one afternoon as she sat beside his bed. He was propped up on pillows and she had just put down the book of poetry she had been reading. He had never much liked poetry as a boy, but now he found that he rather enjoyed it. 

She was watching the fat flakes of a surprise mid-spring snow fall outside of the window of his sick room, and Jon had noticed her fingering the dragonfly that she wore on a chain around her neck as. She had been wearing it that day in the Wolfswood, and he remembered the way that her fingers had instinctively clutched at it when it had been threatened by the deserters. He rarely paid attention to the baubles worn by ladies and girls, but his eye had been drawn to the necklace, and he had realized now that he could not recall seeing her without it. It was the only jewelry she wore, but she was never without its thin silver chain around her long and graceful neck.

“Was what?” she said absently. 

“Your necklace.”

“Oh yes. From a gentleman who holds a very particular place in my affections.” 

“A favorite suitor?” he said in a tone that he hoped matched her playful tone, but feared did not. 

“Oh, Jon,” she replied. “It was never that serious with any of the young men I met in the capital.” Her mother had taught her that it was not proper to accept gifts from suitors, though Lord Baelish had attempted to give her a pair of very becoming earrings, telling her that they were nothing but a small token of his affection. Catelyn had sent them back with regrets that though he was very kind, her daughter simply could not accept such a costly and extravagant gift. “My father gave it to me on my name day. The last I had before he passed.” 

“I apologize, Sansa, for broaching the subject. I did not mean to bring you pain.” 

She smiled sadly at him. “I wear this necklace to remember. You do not need to apologize for causing me to think of him.” 

“He was a good lord and a great man.”  
“He was. I know that people always say that sort of thing about the dead, but in my father’s case, I know it is the truth.” 

“I was very fortunate to be raised by him.”  
“As was I,” she replied. 

One day after he checked on Jon’s injury and reported that the patient was making excellent progress, Dr. Tarly requested to speak to Sansa. 

“Some of the lads were wondering if they might come and visit Captain Snow. I think it might do him good. His leg is much improved, but I get the sense that he is starting to feel a bit restless.” 

“Of course. Any of his companions are welcome here.” Colonel Mormont had been to Winterfell to visit with Jon and offer him his reassurances and regrets. Jon had told her that the older man had taken an interested in Jon when he had assumed his commission and had helped facilitate his advancement through the ranks. Jon always seemed calmer after the Colonel had sat with him. “They should have come to lift his spirits sooner. I am afraid that I must be rather dull company for a man like Jon. He must be dreadfully bored.” 

He looked at her skeptically. “I do not imagine that he would agree, Lady Stark. But I will invite the lads for a visit all the same.” He paused, and then continued hesitantly. “They are not exactly gentlemen.”  
“I expect that they are not, but they are welcome here nonetheless.”

Which was how Mr. Grenn, Mr. Pyp, and Mr. Tollett found themselves, in recently washed and pressed uniforms, the most formal attire they owned, being greeted in the courtyard by Lady Stark of Winterfell. They made awkward bows and she courteously invited them to visit Jon whenever they pleased. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who lives in a castle,” Edd Tollett said, as Sansa led them to the bedroom where Jon would be receiving them. 

She smiled warmly. “I am glad to be thought a novelty, Mr. Tollett. But I must disappoint. You see, Jon grew up here, so you have, in fact, already met someone who lives in a castle. We can be quite clever about how we blend into the rest of society.” She looked back at them with an arched eye-brow and the three men grinned. 

Sansa showed them into Jon’s room and made her excuses to leave them alone. After she left, Jon glowered at his brothers in arms. “I do not know that it is proper to look quite so elated when entering an invalid’s chambers.” 

“Sorry, Captain,” Pyp said with chagrin, and the man did his best to look appropriately somber. “It’s just that your cousin is very charming.” 

“And pretty,” Grenn added. 

“If I had a cousin that pretty to look after me, I think I might shoot myself in the leg,” Edd said. “But all of my cousins are homely. You have all the luck.”

“I cannot say that I am feeling particularly lucky right now.”

“Well then, you are almost as daft as Grenn.”

After tea, the men left, and Sansa found Jon in good spirits. 

“I hope that they will call again,” Sansa said to him. “Their visit seems to have done you well.” 

“They are good men,” Jon replied. “And during the campaign, we were like brothers. I do think, though, that they are all a little bit in love with you.”

“Is that so?” Sansa replied, and she held his gaze for a moment, until the blood rushed to both of their cheeks and they broke the look between them by awkwardly looking at their hands and changing the subject. 

There were no picnics in the Wolfswood, but as the spring warmed and Jon grew increasingly restless, Dr. Tarly gave his patient permission to leave his bed. With support of a cane and Sansa’s arm, Jon went for, at first quite short and then longer, walks in the Godswood of the castle. 

“You seem to be recovering quite well,” Sansa remarked, one afternoon as they walked slowly through the wood, taking care of the soft, uneven ground. 

“I was lavished with the finest of care. It would have been ungrateful not to make a swift recovery.” He grinned at her and the color rose in her cheeks. 

“I believe you owe more gratitude to Dr. Tarly than to I.”  
“I owe you a great deal as well. Dr. Tarly did not keep me entertained during those months of bedrest. And I know for a fact that you find it dreadful to be cooped up the castle, especially when the weather is fine.”  
“It is not so terribly dreadful.” 

“Even so. You will have to think of some way for me to repay you for the care you provided and the kindness with which you did so.” 

“Saving my life was not enough?” 

“Not nearly.”

“Well, then, I suppose I already have a form of recompense in mind.” 

“Have you? Then let’s hear it. What torments will I have to suffer.”  
She stopped their progress and turned to face him. She had thought, briefly, to ask him to wed her so that she could return Arya and Rickon from the Eyrie. It was an obvious solution, and one she had no doubt he would acquiesce if she proposed it. But she had dismissed the idea. He had dissuaded her from entering a marriage of convenience with Ramsay Bolton, she would not thank him by forcing him into one with her. She had come to care for him too much, as a cousin of course, to entrap him in such a manner. “Stay here at Winterfell. Beyond your recovery, I mean.”  
“Sansa, I cannot continue to be a burden on you and the family. Nor can I accept your charity.”  
“Of course, you can. Jon, you are my family,” she smiled. “Besides you would not be a burden nor would it be charity. Mr. Poole is not as young as he once was, and though he has served my family well, I believe that he could benefit from some assistance.” 

“And you wish me to provide that assistance.” 

“Who could I trust more to look after the welfare of our family, our people. I was hoping that you could learn about the management of the estate. I can run the household, but I know little about managing the duchy outside of the walls of Winterfell. I hoped that you might agree to stay and learn so that when Mr. Poole retires, well, you could take on the role of steward. So, as you see, I expect you to work very hard.”

“You could learn.” 

“I could. But I would much rather you did. Please say that you will at least consider, Jon.” 

“I will consider.” 

And two days later, he promised her he would stay and learn and serve her as he could. 

Sansa found a few charming spots in the godswood for them to enjoy teas of finger sandwiches and lemon cakes, though never beneath the weirwood, the heart tree of the wood. That tree, it was said, had been sacred to her ancestors, and Sansa could not look at it without thinking about visiting it with her father and siblings. Ned had believed that it was important for his children to remember the ways of old. To have picnicked under it would have felt sacrilegious to both Sansa and Jon. But the godswood at Winterfell was large, and Sansa found other places of hidden beauty. It was a relief for Jon to be freed from his sick room and out of the castle, and he couldn’t help but notice that Sansa’s red hair looked very pretty against the new leaves on the oaks and ironwoods. 

As they sat beneath the white blossoms of a hawthorn tree, one of their favorite spots for an afternoon tea, Sansa asked Jon about what Bran had said to him the first night he returned to Winterfell. 

Bran’s words had been in her mind of late, because he had spoken to her in that same eerie, knowing way two days past. Sansa had brought Bran, who seemed uninterested in leaving the castle, tea before her walk with Jon and he had looked at her, his eyes blank and distant and he had said, “Do not worry sister, you’ll walk in the garden again one day. And this time with someone worthy of you, brave and gentle and strong.” 

Sansa had shuddered and hurriedly left the room, but Bran’s words had lingered with her. When she met Jon for their stroll, he had asked her what the matter was, but she dismissed his concern, though she was distracted and distressed the rest of the afternoon, remembering what Bran had said to her after the fever had passed, but before they were alone in Winterfell together. I’m sorry that happened to you. You looked so beautiful in your white dress and purple ribbons. 

Arya had found her crying afterward and had assumed that her tears had been for their parents and brother. And while that was partially true, every time she cried she thought of mother and father and Robb, she was not strong enough to tell her sister that she was also crying for herself, because had that stupid little girl in her stupid white dress and stupid purple ribbons not been lead down the garden path perhaps everything would be different and her family would be alive and she might actually have had a chance to be happy. 

Except that she had been wrong about that too. Because with Jon here, she was not entirely unhappy. She had come to enjoy their afternoons and evening together. Looked forward to them, even, and she found herself rushing through her morning obligations as the lady of the house so that she might see him, sit beside him, talk and read and just be near him. They had never been close as children, but now she was quite glad that he was here, though she would not allow herself to examine those feelings any more closely. 

But now Bran had mentioned the garden again, and Sansa was unsure if it was a promise or a threat, and Jon was, for the fifth time, asking her if she was quite alright, observing that she seemed quite anxious these past few days. 

“It was something that Bran said to me,” she finally confessed. “Something about that night in King’s Landing.” She paused. “With the prince. It unsettled me was all.”

“Bran is… not as he was.” 

“No. The fever changed him. He claims to see things and he knows things that he should not.” About gardens and purple dresses, she thinks, but does not say, unwilling to divulge more details about her shame to Jon. There is a silence between them, uncharacteristically awkward and Sansa continues, “The first night you dined with us…” 

“You want to know what Bran meant? When he mentioned a woman?”

“Only if you wish to tell me.” 

Jon’s expression was somewhere between a grimace and a smile. “I cannot rightly say, because I cannot imagine how he could know of it. It was a long time ago. At the front. There was a woman. Ygritte. A wildling. I loved her dearly. But she died. In an attack.” 

Sansa reached out and took Jon’s hand in hers. “I am sorry, Jon. Truly, I am.” 

“She died in my arms. It was the very least I could do. Still, I am afraid that it is not enough.” 

“But Bran said that it was not your fault.”

“He did. But we were on opposite sides of the war and she was killed by one of my men. I had asked her to her leave, told her to run, but she refused. She knew only two things, loving and fighting, and they both got her killed. Her blood is on my hands.” He paused for a moment collecting himself. “If Bran told you that what happened between you and the Prince was not yours, would you believe him?” 

She shook her head. “I suppose we are much harder on ourselves than the people who love us could ever be.”

“I am afraid we are.”  
“I am sorry that this happened to you, Jon.” 

“And I am sorry for what happened to you, Sansa.” 

“I am glad you have decided to stay.”

“As am I.”

They spent most of the rest of that afternoon in silence, but it was comfortable now, the awkwardness dispelled. Their hands remained clasped and Sansa reassured herself that it was quite common, natural really, for cousins to show such affection toward one another.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sansa receives a letter from Arya.

Arya’s letter arrived five days before she did.

_Dearest Sister,_

_I have the most delightful news: I am free of the Eyrie and Aunt Lysa and that dreadful, sniveling little Robert. Even better, my sister, I am happier than I thought possible. You see, I have run off to be married. Of course, that is not the part that has made me happy—you know that I never bothered much about finding a husband—but rather who I am married to. His name is Gendry Waters—yes, he is a bastard, but I do not give a fig about that—and he is the most wonderful man I have ever met. He was working as a smith—yes, he is a blacksmith, but I do not give a fig about that either. At first, he spent an awful lot of time teasing me, but then I kissed him and then we spent an awful lot of time doing that—stop scowling, I know it was not ladylike, but you know I have never cared much for being a lady. When I asked him to run away with me, he insisted that he would only do so if we were properly wed, because he loved me dearly and wouldn’t allow me to ruin my reputation. I told him he was being stupid, but I agreed. And now we are, married, I mean. I left a note for Aunt Lysa—have you heard from her? I wish that I might have seen her face when she read that I would rather wed a low-born smith—and a bastard at that, for our aunt gives whole bushels of figs about those sorts of silly things—than her stupid son. And Sansa, I would so much rather marry Gendry than anyone in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms, so I am so glad that I did. We are going to make our way to Winterfell, and then we plan to travel to Esso and all over the world. We are off on a grand adventure._

The last paragraph took a different tone.

_I know that this is likely not what you would have wanted for me.  Nor what mother would have wanted. But please believe me, sister, that Gendry is a good man, and I do admire and love him so. It surprises no one more than myself that I feel this way about him, but I do._

_Please do not be too cross with your loving sister,_

_Arya_

_PS. Please give Jon my love and share the happy news._

_PPS. Please do not let Jon murder Gendry when we arrive. Tell him I will be quite furious with him if he quarrels with my husband as I am very fond of them both._

“What do you intend to do about this?” Jon asked after Sansa had handed him the missive.

“I intend to welcome my sister back home,” she said firmly.

“Good.” He passed the letter back to her. “I feared you might have had a different response.”

“Once I might have. My mother certain would. But the deed is done, Jon. I will not lose a sister over it. Not when I have already lost a father, mother, and brother. Besides, what care does this house have for scandal? Running off with a blacksmith might be the most respectable thing a woman of this house has done in a long time. At least they had the decency to wed.” She paused. “I am sorry, Jon. I did not mean to cast aspersions on your mother. Only on myself. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive.”

“Forgive me.”

“Fine. If you are going to bully me into it, I forgive you,” he said, and returned her smile. “I cannot believe little Arya is wed.”

“She is not so little any more. She should have been out at this point. But that does not make the fact of her marriage less believable. She used to throw a fit anytime my father so much as mentioned that one day she would be wed, insisting that she would rather be an old spinster than married to some stupid boy.” Her expression turned wry. “I, on the other hand, used to dream of my wedding—the cake, a new dress, father presenting me to the groom, the drinking cholate at the breakfast. And here I am heading toward spinsterhood, while my wild little sister weds.” She paused. “Though I will not pity myself. You do promise that no harm will come to Arya’s husband?” she said, changing both the subject and her tone.

“I will do my best to exert self-control and welcome him with civility rather than gunfire.”

“I do believe, Captain Snow, that you are turning into quite the gentleman.”

When the two horses galloped into the courtyard of Winterfell, Sansa and Jon were there to meet them. Arya dismounted; she was dressed in men’s clothes, a jacket and a pair of trousers that had been fitted to her small frame.

She ran to embrace Sansa, and they held each other for a few moments without words.

“It is good to have you home, sister,” Sansa finally said.

“It is good to be home, sister,” Arya replied.  
She then turned to Jon, hugging him tightly. “Thank you for all of your letters. And for keeping Sansa company. I hope she did not bore you too terribly.”

“Not at all,” Jon said. “Sansa has been very kind to me. I would not have survived my recovery without her.”  
Sansa felt a slight flush climbing up her neck and she turned her attention to the young man hesitantly approaching her. He was tall and broad-shouldered with dark hair and kind blue eyes.

“It is an honor to meet you, Lady Stark,” Gendry said before dipping into a clumsy bow.

“And I am so pleased to meet you, Mr. Waters. But please, call me ‘Sansa.’ I am your sister now. There is no need for formal titles between us.”

“Only if you will be so kind as to call me ‘Gendry.’”

“Of course, Gendry. Welcome to Winterfell. I do hope that you will one day see this as home.”

“I beg your pardon, m’lady, er, Sansa. But your sister is the only home I’ll be needing.”

“Well, then, I hope at least that this will be a place where you feel you will always be welcome.”

Arya came up beside Gendry and linked her arm through his. “I hope that my sister is not being too threatening.”

“Not at all,” Gendry replied. “In fact, she has been very gracious. I think that I quite like her.” His smile was easy and genuine, and Sansa found that she quite liked him as well. Though society might believe that Arya had made a foolish match, Sansa was convinced that her sister had chosen well. There was more to a man than lands and titles.

“That is quite a compliment,” Arya said, turning to Sansa. “As a rule, Gendry mistrusts fancy people.”

“Well, then, it’s a good thing you’re not fancy,” he said, grinning down on her with an easy smile. She playfully pushed him away and Sansa caught Jon’s eye and they both smiled as well.

At dinner that evening, Sansa moved to give Arya precedence at the table, for although Arya was the younger sister, she was a married woman now.

“Do not be stupid,” Arya scoffed. “Sit where you always you do.” So Sansa had taken usual her seat across from Jon, next to Bran who was in the lord’s seat at the head of the table where her father had once sat. Arya sat to Jon’s other side, and Gendry beside Sansa. Mr. Luwin completed their company, seated at Arya’s other side.

Although, since Jon’s return to Winterfell, dinners had become more pleasant, this was the liveliest meal the castle had seen since the fever had struck. Arya talked animatedly about the arrangements she and Gendry had made to travel throughout Westeros and Essos, with Gendry interjecting at certain points, becoming more comfortable with the company as the meal progressed. Sansa said little, but a number of times she shared glances and not a few small smiles with Jon as they listened to Arya’s excited plans.

“Before you leave,” Sansa said. “You must send word to the Eyre, informing Aunt Lysa that you wish to have our brother returned. I spoke to Mr. Poole and he assures that now that you are a woman wed, you have come into your own, and as Rickon’s sister, Aunt Lysa will have no choice but to accept and relinquish Rickon as her ward. She was named guardian only until nearer kin were wed or came of age.”

“I should like to deliver such a letter myself,” Arya said. “And spit on her in the process. I did not like leaving Rickon there, but I could not very well bring him with us on the elopement.”

“It is probably better if you are not the messenger,” Sansa said. “Spitting is quite out of the question. We do not want to give Aunt Lysa any reason to refuse our request.”

“You did not have to live with her.”

“No. I did not. But we also do not want to give her any reason to condemn Rickon to her care any longer than necessary.”

Jon cleared his throat. “I will take the missive and bring Rickon back to Winterfell,” he said. “If you will allow me.”

“Are you sure your leg is well enough? You do not want to risk reinjuring it with all that travel.”

“Sam assures me that it is as well as it will be. I am walking without a cane, and we have been on a few short rides.” The leg gave him barely any trouble any more, although it was often stiff in the damp weather and did not have the strength it once did.

“You cannot possible plan to ride there and back.”

“I will be perfectly fine.”

“But I would not be. I would be quite ill with worry for you.” She saw his expression soften and pressed her advantage. “Besides, Rickon is only four. You cannot possibly expect him to ride all the way home. Please say that you will take Harwin and the family coach.”  
“If you insist.” He relented. He knew that she was right about taking the carriage and coachman, as much as it ruffled him to do so. It might be one thing for a man alone to travel across the country on horseback, but with a child in tow, it was quite another story. Besides, he would not cause her worry, though he was not unpleased at the thought that she might worry for him.

“I do.” She reached across the table took his hand in hers and looked earnestly into his eyes. “Thank you, Jon, for bringing our brother home.”

He held her gaze, his expression soft, but said nothing, and Arya wondered when exactly her sister had fallen in love with Jon Snow and when he had fallen in love with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a little nervous about this chapter. First, I know that many of you were expecting Jon and Sansa to wed in order to save Arya and Rickon. I love a good marriage of connivence storyline, but for some reason it didn't feel right for this story. (I had intended to go in that direction, but both characters resisted proposing it, so here we are!)  
> Second, I was unsure about my depiction of Arya. Jon was easy to transport into the Regency era. Sansa was even easier. Arya, not so much. I drew a bit from Lydia Bennet's "untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and fearless" nature, while attempting to exclude her less admirable qualities and her boy- and clothes-craziness. I hope it works!  
> Thanks to everyone reading and reviewing this story. You have been great inspiration to keep going even as work builds up this semester. Writing this story has been my relaxing me-time, and I appreciate you all for encouraging me to stick with it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon rides South.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your kind feedback about Arya and the direction the story is taking.

“I am not in love with Jon, and he is certainly not in love with me,” Sansa said to her sister. 

After dinner, Jon, Gendry, and Mr. Luwin stayed behind as the ladies passed through. Mr. Poole and his daughter had not joined them, so only Arya and Sansa entered the drawing room. As soon as the door closed, Arya whirled on her sister and demanded to know what exactly had transpired between her and Jon. 

“That is a load of rubbish and you know it,” Arya said hotly. “I might be your younger sister, but I am not so blind nor so big a simpleton.” 

Sansa sighed. “While Jon was recovering, we spent a lot of time in each other’s company. I suppose that breeds a certain degree of familiarity, but not necessarily love.” 

“You are fooling yourself. You love him. And he is madly in love with you. Why will you not admit it?” She turned an angry gaze on her sister. “It is because he is a bastard, is it not?” 

“Of course not,” Sansa said patiently, hoping to soothe her sister’s temper, despite her own flaring as a result of the accusation. “I know better than any that titles are not the mark of a worthy man. Nor do they make a man worthy.” 

“Well, when you to idiots do eventually wed, I plan remind you of this conversation. A number of times.”  
“I would expect nothing less, though I predict you will be sorely disappointed.”

The men entered the drawing room, putting an end to their conversation. The rest of the evening, though, Sansa could not help but notice the number of times that she found Jon looking her way while she was in conversation with Arya, Mr. Luwin, or Gendry or the way that he stayed by her side as she played piano. And she also could not help but notice the pleasure that she felt at his looks and his company and she wondered if her sister might not be on to something. 

Jon lingered after Arya, Gendry, and Mr. Luwin had retired for the evening. “I like him,” he said. 

“As do I,” Sansa replied. “And what is more important, Arya seems quite taken with him.” 

“And he with her.” 

Sansa returned Jon’s steady gaze, her heart pounding and stomach fluttering and Arya’s words echoing in her ears. “I should bid you goodnight,” she said quickly, breaking eye contact, attempting to dispel whatever it was that hung in the air between them and the foolishness of her imagination, which seemed to be running wild. 

Arya and Gendry agreed to stay at Winterfell through the winter before leaving from White Harbor to take a ship to Braavos. It was early autumn, and travel would be better with the spring. It would also allow them to spend the winter holidays with family. And it meant that Sansa would not be alone when Jon rode south to bring Rickon home. 

The trip would likely take a fortnight, perhaps a few days longer, provided that Jon did not encounter any trouble along the way or from Aunt Lysa. 

Although he had acquiesced to the carriage, he had insisted that he be able to ride, especially when the weather was fine. He could not bear to be confined to a carriage all those days, he had declared. And once Dr. Tarly had approved of the plan and Sansa had made him swear that if his leg gave him any trouble at all he would ride in the carriage, the negotiations were complete.   
It was a sunny fall day, with just the first hint of cool crispness in the air, when Jon rode from Winterfell with Harwin driving the carriage. Sansa saw him out to the courtyard. She handed him a parcel wrapped in a simple brown paper. 

“I apologize,” she said. “I know it does not look like much, but I thought you might need it on your journey.” He carefully unwrapped the package to reveal of black woolen greatcoat. “I made it for you,” she explained. “I noticed that yours was getting to be a bit thin for the North. And winter storms have a tendency to intrude on the autumn months.”

“Thank you, Sansa,” he said, looking down at the coat, the corners of his eyes crinkling up in a smile. 

“It was nothing.” There was an awkward pause, each not quite meeting the other’s eyes. “Take care,” she told him. “And hurry home.”

“I will do my best to resolve those two contradictory orders.” 

“You know very well what I mean.” 

They bid each other goodbye, lingering over the farewell perhaps a bit more than they should, and Jon mounted Crow. He urged his horse into a walk, but looked behind himself one last time to give Sansa one last small wave and a mournful look which she returned in kind. 

Winterfell felt empty without Jon. Sansa had become so accustomed to his presence, to their afternoons and evenings together, that she felt quite lost without him. She was fortunate to have her sister and Gendry to keep her company, but it was not the same as the quiet domestic intimacy she and Jon had established.   
“Will you quit moping?” Arya scolded her. “Jon will be home soon enough. And then you can tell him how much you love.” 

“I do not love Jon but as a friend and cousin and I am not moping,” Sansa had replied. 

“Then what do you call wandering distractedly around the castle sighing and staring out the window with listless longing?”

Though she would not admit it to Arya, Sansa did feel a bit despondent. She found little pleasure in the daily activities that, if they had not brought her joy when Jon was there, had at least offered a bit of satisfaction. But now she felt nothing but a yearning for his safe return and the resumption of their routine. 

That and worry. Though she had promised she would not worry, she found she could not help herself. Whenever she was idle, she felt her thoughts returning to Jon. She hoped that his journey was easy and that he remained in good health. And she worried that he would not have the good sense to overtax his leg and irate or, worse, reinjure it. And she worried that Aunt Lysa would not be amenable, and that, despite the papers that their solicitor had drawn up at Mr. Poole’s request, she would not give up Rickon. 

Jon sent word when he had reached the Eyrie, and when they receive a post that he was readying to begin his journey with Rickon, Sansa felt a weight being lifted from her at the prospect of his return. Jon would soon be home. 

It was a clear autumn day when the family carriage pulled onto the cobblestones of Winterfell’s courtyard. Sansa, who had been distractedly watching to for it since receiving Jon’s letter, rushed into the yard, breathless, her cheeks pink from the exertion of her run through the halls of the castle. 

Rickon tumbled out of the carriage. “Sansa,” he shrieked, wrapping his arms around her legs. 

“Oh my,” she said through a smile. “Surely this cannot be the same little brother that left for the Eyrie. You have gotten so tall.” She placed her hand on his head and affectionately ruffled his hair.   
“It is me, Sansa,” he said. “I promised. Jon saved me from the Eyrie. And from our Aunt Lysa and our cousin Robert, who I do not like at all. And then we rode in a carriage and Jon said that when I am old enough he is going to teach me to ride a horse just like he does but I am not old enough yet. And on our trip we saw sheep and cows and some pigs and horses, not just the horses that Jon brought with him and some other horses and I do like horses, Jon says that one day I shall have one of my very own, and also there were soldiers, and did you know Jon used to be in the army, but then he hurt his leg and now he is not but that’s alright because he is going to stay at Winterfell and live with us?” 

The boy finally took a breath. “It sounds like you had a wonderful trip,” Sansa said. “Now run along and find Osha. I believe she has a treat in store for you.” Osha was the nursemaid the Starks had taken on to care for Bran and Rickon. “Arya and Gendry are out of ride,” she continued apologetically, directing her attention, finally, to Jon. As much as she had wanted to greet him immediately, it would not do to seem to eager; besides, Rickon had required her attention. “We had not expected you to return so quickly.” 

“The travel was easy,” Jon said, as Rickon scampered into the castle. He pulled her into an embrace and his lips brushed against her forehead. “I have missed you, Sansa.” And she thought for a moment that his glaze flickered to her lips, but it was only a moment and too short for certainty but long enough that she found herself hoping. 

“And I missed you, too,” she said, looking into his warm grey eyes and trying not to think about his strong arms around her, his body pressed against hers. She reluctantly pulled away from his embrace, smoothing her skirts. “I am pleased to hear that your journey was pleasant.” 

“My journey was. Your aunt was not.” His mouth twisted into a grimace. “But the less said of that woman the better. I now completely understand Arya’s desire to spit on her.”

“Please do not encourage her. If she knew you approved, there would be no stopping her.” 

He grinned. “I will do no such thing.”

“Aunt Lysa did not give you too much trouble, did she?”

“She gave enough. Probably would have pushed the matter further,” he looked to make sure that Rickon had made his way into the castle, “but I think she was largely glad to be free of her nephew; he is a bit more, uh, spirited than her own boy, at least what I saw of him, and I’m not sure Lady Aryn cared to for Rickon’s liveliness, otherwise she would have made more of a fuss. She is not an easy woman.”

“No, she is not. Thank you, Jon, for enduring her.”

“It was worth it to bring Rickon home to Winterfell.” 

“You are wearing your new coat,” she beamed. “It suits you. But it is far too warm for all that heavy wool. We have been granted a mild autumn.” 

“Compared to the heat of the south, the air here is practically frigid,” he said. “But it good to be back in the North and back at Winterfell. And back with you, you all, I mean.” 

“Of course.” Her smile tightened. Although the embrace had suggested otherwise—Jon embraced Arya as well, but their hugs were more playful, less tender, or so it had always seemed to Sansa—perhaps he did not view her differently from his other cousins. She silently upbraided Arya for putting such foolish thoughts in her head. “Well, I had better see to Rickon. Make sure that he is settling in alright and that he is not causing too much of an uproar.” She paused, then continued awkwardly. “Thank you again, Jon. For retrieving him. If there is anything I can do to repay you this kindness…” he words trailed off. 

He took her hand in his. “Sansa,” he said softly, nervously, and she was taken aback by the sudden seriousness in his tone. “May I have a word? There is something that I must talk to you about, something that this trip has made quite clear to me.”

“Yes, Jon,” she said, her heart speeding. 

“Sansa, I….” he began, but the clattering of hooves interrupted him, as Arya raced into the yard, Gendry on her heels.

“Jon!” Arya exclaimed, leaping down from her horse, unaware that she was intruding. “We thought we saw the carriage approaching the castle. Where is my little brother?” 

“Begging for more sweets from Osha, I imagine,” Sansa said. 

“We had best go save her, then,” Arya said. 

“We had,” Sansa replied reluctantly, her eyes never leaving Jon’s, hoping that that he would read in them the promise to continue their conversation when they had a moment together alone.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Stark family celebrates the Christmas holiday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has left comments and kudos. This chapter was seasonal when I first started drafting this story. Not so much anymore. Regardless, I hope you enjoy.

For Jon and Sansa moments alone, however, during the next few weeks were rare. Jon was frequently in the company of Mr. Poole, who had enthusiastically agreed to Jon’s apprenticeship and was teaching him the finer points of running the estate. When he was not working, and even sometimes when he was, Jon was shadowed by Rickon, who had developed a sudden, childish fixation on his cousin. He dogged Jon’s heels whenever he could and as the family ate their supper, he would provide an exhaustive recounting of Jon’s activities. 

“You are his hero,” Sansa said one even when Jon, bemused, had mentioned the boy’s penchant for following him everywhere he went. “You saved him from mean old Aunt Lysa and dreadful cousin Robert. You are like a knight out of Old Nan’s faerie stories.” 

“I suppose so,” Jon said, clearly uncomfortable with Rickon’s idolatry. “I just hope it passes.” 

“I will speak with Farlen,” she said. “That grey bitch he loves just whelped a litter of puppies. Perhaps he could give the runt to Rickon to raise. It might offer a distraction and pull his attention from you.” 

Rickon did take to the pup, but Shaggydog, as he had named him, did not provide Jon the relief Sansa had hoped for. Rickon still followed his cousin everywhere he could, but now he did so with a puppy in his arms or at his heels. 

When Jon did get moments alone with Sansa, he found he could not muster the courage to broach the topic of his affection again. He had been impulsive the day of his return, the fact of seeing her after such a long absence prompting him to act. But, now upon further reflection, he brooded on the possibility that she would not return his feelings, would refuse his proposal, and that any confessions would create distance between them. He accepted his cowardice, preferring that he remain unrequited at her side than to risk being sent away. 

The Yule season approached and, with the surviving Starks gathered again, it was the merriest holiday that castle had seen since illness and death had struck. The holidays provided ample distractions for Sansa, but not enough to entirely eliminate her ruminations about what Jon had meant to say before her sister had interrupted them. She longed to ask him during one of their few quiet moments together, but she fear that it would appear immodest of her and her experience with Joffrey had rendered her reluctant to make presumptions about a man’s intentions. She could not bear to be disappointed again. Not by Jon, who had come to mean so much to her. 

On Christmas eve, Jon, Gendry, and, of course, Rickon went into the Wolfwood’s and returned with boughs of evergreen, holly, hawthorn, and ivy, and Arya and Sansa cut rosemary and winter roses from the castles gardens with which to decorate the halls of Winterfell. Gendry had also found some mistletoe, which held over Arya’s head to steal a kiss that she gladly gave. 

That night they played Hunt the Slipper with Rickon and after he went to bed, the adults stayed up with games of whist and loo until Arya had demanded charades, which they played well into the early hours of the morning, no one eager to see the night come to an end. 

On Christmas day, the family was joined not only by their usual dining companions, but by Colonel Mormont, and some of the lads from Jon’s regiment, which was still stationed in Wintertown and looked to remain there for a good long while. Sansa remember Mr. Tollett, Mr. Pyp, and Mr. Grenn, and they had brought with them Mr. Satin, a handsome, charming soft spoken recruit, who Jeyne seemed quite taken by. Dr. Tarly was also in attendance, accompanied by Miss Gilly. Sam had nervously taken Jon aside during one of his visits and asked if the girl might be welcome as his guest. He explained that she had neither father nor mother, indeed, no family to speak of, so was likely to be quite lonely during the holiday and would they mind doing the kindness of allowing her to join their party. Jon, seeing the way his friend flushed and stammered, assured him that she would be most welcome, as she was as much to thank for his recovery as the physician. 

That evening, they supped on boar’s head and had plum pudding, march pane, and gingerbread, and Rickon, who was quite enamored by the men of the Night’s Watch and had loudly and repeatedly declared that one day he would be a soldier, ate so many sweets that he made himself rather ill. 

The next day, they celebrated boxing day. As the lady of the house, Sansa left Winterfell early to bring food and coins to their tenants, and Jon insisted that he accompany her. It was a pleasant morning, crisp and snow crunched underfoot, but Jon was warm in the coat Sansa had made for him, and she looked lovely with a charming bonnet to set off her bright eyes and the roses in her cheeks. 

When they returned to the castle, the family exchanged gifts. A giggling Rickon immediately pretended to stab Jon, who theatrically perished at his feet, with the wooden sword he had received. Bran seemed pleased with the scarf Sansa had made for him and the history book she had purchased, as did Gendry, who received a very warm hat and pair woolen mittens as a response and remedy to his complaints of the northern cold. Arya was charmed by the simple, but very fetching, bonnet, more of a cap really, that Sansa had crafted for her, which she promised would be excellent for their travels. 

To Jon, Sansa gave a watercolor of the hawthorn tree under which they had spent so many afternoons. In the corner she had written, in her elegant hand, lines from a poem by John Clare:   
Meet me at the sunset  
Down in the green glen,   
Where we’ve often met  
By hawthorn-tree and foxes’ den,   
Meet me in the green glen.

“Sansa,” was all he could manage after unwrapping the gift.   
“I know it is silly.”

“No,” he said. “It is not silly at all. Sansa, this is beautiful. You cannot conceive what this means to me. Thank you.” The eyes had held hers were so earnest and warm and full of affection that she flushed with pleasure. 

“I have a little something for you. It is not much,” he said, as he handed her a small package, smiling nervously. Inside was a comb with a dragonfly made of silver with a smattering of topaz, though Jon was certain the blue and brightness of her eyes would undoubtedly out shine the jewels. “I thought you might like it to accompany your necklace,” he offered when she did not say anything. 

“Jon,” she breathed. “I am speechless. This is lovely. But it is too much. You should not have.”

“It is my pleasure to,” he said, taking her hand in his. “I saw it in shop and thought of you.”

“Thank you,” she said, trying not to think too much about the gentle warmth of his fingers and they pressed against hers or what business Jon had visiting a jeweler’s. 

When they left the parlor for a mid-day meal, Jon and Sansa passed beneath the mistletoe. 

“You have to kiss!” Rickon exclaimed. “Those are the rules.” 

Jon and Sansa exchanged awkward glances. “I do not think…” he started before Arya interrupted. 

“Oh, it does not matter what you think. Rickon is quite correct. Those are the rules,” she said, with mischief in her eyes and a smile that was perhaps a bit too smug. 

“Well, rules are rules,” Sansa said, unflinchingly meeting her sister’s look with one of her own before kissing Jon sweetly on the cheek. “I believe that satisfies them.” 

“Not quite. Jon has to kiss you in return.” 

“I do not remember you ever being such a stickler for rules before,” Jon grumbled, wishing that his beard covered more of the blush rushing to his cheeks, and hoping that no one, least of all Sansa, discerned how grateful he was for Arya’s insistence or how embarrassed he was by it. He truly was not sure if he ought to curse her or thank her. Likely both. 

“Well, of course they do not apply to me. But everyone else remains subject,” she replied. 

“Alright then,” he said. His beard was scratchy against his cheek, but his lips were soft. They lingered on her cheek for, perhaps, a second or two longer than might be deemed proper in polite society, even between cousins, and Sansa thought of the way that he had gazed at her lips the day he had returned and wondered for a moment what it might be like to have his on hers. 

At the mid-day meal, Sansa and Jon sat across from each other, desperately trying to avoid eye contact.

Afterword, Sansa cornered Arya. “What were you thinking?” she hissed. “Goading Jon and I like that.” 

“I was only teasing,” her sister said innocently. “Besides, was it so terrible to give him a kiss?”

“No. I mean yes. It certainly was. It was unkind of you, sister, to press the situation as you did.” 

“Trust me,” Arya said, her tone genuine. “I meant no harm. I was just hoping that perhaps a kiss might push you idiots into finally acknowledging your affection.” 

“Jon does not love me. And I do not love him,” she repeated, and she wondered if, at this point, she was trying to convince her sister or herself for she could no longer be certain of her own feelings, let alone his.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an invitation arrives at Winterfell.

During the next few weeks, Winterfell lay sleepily under a blanket of snow. The family spent most of their days together in front of the great fire, playing games, listening to Sansa read, or strum a harp or play the piano. Even Rickon, who was customarily a wild and high spirited boy, seemed subdued, for which they were all very grateful. When the days were clear, Jon and Sansa took some brief winter walks, trudging through the snow, often accompanied by Arya and Gendry or Rickon and his pup, who seemed to delight in diving into drifts. But when blizzards raged, which they often did this time of year in the north, they would all huddle inside together, letting the warmth from the fire and the company dispel the frigid air blowing outside. 

On quiet afternoon toward the end of winter, a rider entered the courtyard, creating a commotion among the residents of the castle, who had not had a visitor for some time. It was a messenger, carrying an invitation for the Starks to attend the Deepwood Motte ball, which was held annually to celebrate the end of winter and the coming of spring. Accommodations would be provided so that their guests could rest, recover, and refresh themselves for a few days after the difficulty of winter travel.

“We should go,” Arya said. “Sansa, can we please?” 

“You have never had any interest in going to a ball before,” she admonished. She had not been to a ball since the last she had attended in King’s Landing, and the idea of going to one caused her palms to sweat and her heart to race. “I am not certain that it is such a good idea. The roads will be treacherous.” 

The did not send their response and almost every day, Arya brought it up. 

“I have never been to a ball,” she said. 

“We used to go all the time as children.”

“Well, it is different. Is it not? To go as a woman as opposed to a girl.” 

“You will have to wear a dress.”

“I suppose I can manage that for one evening,” Arya stubbornly replied. 

One night after everyone had retired, Jon and Sansa sat together in the parlor. These were generally the only few minutes of the day when they could be alone together. The awkwardness of their Christmas kiss beneath the mistletoe had thawed, but Sansa could not help but feel that something unsaid continued to hang in the air between them. 

“I will not let anything happen to you,” he said abruptly. “Pardon?”

“At the ball,” he took her hands in his, and leaned toward her. “Sansa, I know why you are so reluctant to go. And it is not the roads nor the weather. And I am swearing to protect you. You are safe with me.” 

She was taken aback. “I know,” she managed. “It is foolish of me to be afraid.” 

“No, it is not. But know that I will protect you,” he repeated with additional force. 

“And I thank you for that, Jon,” she said. “But there are some things from which you cannot protect me. My reputation… it would not be wise for me to attend.” She paused and continued in a voice that was heartbreakingly small and uncertain. “What will people say of me?”

“If they say anything other than that you are a brave and capable young woman who has taken on extraordinary responsibilities during incredibly difficult times with not only competence, but grace,” his hands clenched into fists, “they will be forced to answer those aspersions in an affair of honor.” 

“Jon,” she said gently. “It is often women who are most vicious, and you very well cannot go around shooting at them.”

He shrugged. “Then their husbands or sons or brothers will answer for it. I will protect you, Sansa. I swear it.”

So, Sansa relented, and the next week was spent in preparations for the trip. The dressmaker was called from Wintertown and new dresses rushed for Sansa and Arya, and the tailor was summoned to fit Jon and Gendry, the latter of whom had never own a set of tails, and though Jon could have worn his uniform, he felt that doing so no longer felt appropriate now that he was not a soldier. It would feel rather too much like playing dress up, he declared, and so Sansa insisted that he accept the necessary formal wear. Gendry joked that he would never in a thousand years have imagined that he would wear such a fancy coat and Sansa teased him that it was what came of spending time with fancy people. 

Sansa had asked Bran if he would join them, and her brother had smiled sadly at her. “I am afraid that I am not very skilled at dancing.” 

“Oh bother that,” Sansa had replied. “There are plenty of folks who will attend without plans to dance. Do you imagine our cousin is much of dancer?” 

“Jon will dance,” Bran said. “But, no, I am afraid travel will be too difficult. Thank you asking, sister.” 

“But you really should think of going. How do you plan to find a wife if you never leave the walls of Winterfell?” 

“I will never marry, Sansa,” he replied, his face a mosaic of sorrow and acceptance, and Sansa wondered what and how he knew. 

Trunks were packed and repacked and the carriage and horses prepared for the journey. Rickon would also be staying home with Osha and Mr. Luwin, and Sansa had to do a great deal to sooth her baby brother, who panicked at the thought of being separated again from his sisters. It had taken no small amount of cajoling and bribery to calm him down. 

“You love Osha,” Sansa had comforted him. “And she loves you very much. You are going to have a wonderful time while we are away.” 

“I don’t want to have a wonderful time. I want to come with you.”

“When you are older,” she promised. 

“If you promise to be good for Osha,” Jon had said. “I will teach you to ride a pony this summer.” 

“A pony of my very own,” Rickon had pressed.

Jon had looked to Sansa, who had nodded. All of the Stark children had ponies to ride, and Rickon was now of age to safely learn. 

“Of your very own.” 

“Do you promise?” he had sniffled. 

“On my honor, I swear it to you,” Jon had said solemnly. 

Rickon had accepted, and though he had fussed a bit more when he saw the trunks being loaded into the carriage, the prospect of riding his very own pony kept most of his dramatics under control. 

As the pulled out of Winterfell, Sansa felt panic grip her. It was the first time in a long while that she would be away from the castle, away from her home. She had, of course, taken short trips into Wintertown and the Wolfswood, but those hardly counted. The last time she had truly been away had been her second and last season in King’s Landing and she could not, would not, revisit those memories. Jon reassuringly squeezed her hand, as though reading her thoughts. 

They were fortunate enough to have good weather for most of the journey, though one day was bitterly cold and Sansa, huddled beneath furs could not warm herself, and made good time on the country roads from Winterfell to Deepwood Mott. Jon and Arya both refused to be confined to the carriage and had brought horses to ride along side it. And Sansa and Gendry did not want to be without their companions, so they rode as well, though not as much; Sansa because she was out of practice and found herself tired and sore after her first full day of riding and Gendry because he was a poor horseman, having not grown up with wealth nor the privilege nor the ponies that the Stark children had enjoyed. Sansa took the opportunity to become better acquainted with her brother-in-law, though she was always inordinately pleased when Jon took a break from his horse to sit beside her. 

They stopped at inns for the night, eating in the private sitting room and sleeping in beds that were not as comfortable as their own. 

On the fifth day, they entered the forest from which the castle took its name. Unlike Winterfell, which was near the wood, Deepwood, as its nomenclature indicated, was nestled well within the trees. The castle itself, made of wood, was not as impressive as Winterfell, but situated on its motte it towered over the buildings that surrounded it, giving it an imposing air. 

Lord Robett Glover and his wife Lady Sybelle Glover greeted them in the courtyard. He was an older man, his hair already white, and she much younger, holding their infant daughter, Erena. 

“Lady Stark of Winterfell,” he said formerly, bowing deeply to Sansa. “And Lady Arya. Captain Snow. Mr. Waters.” He greeted the rest of the family. “It is an honor to welcome you into our home.”

“It is an honor to be invited,” Sansa replied. “We are appreciative of your hospitality.” 

“Oh, you poor, dears,” Lady Glover said, breaking the formality of the scene. She took one of each of the Stark women’s hands in each of her own. “To think of all you have lost. Your poor father and mother and your dear brother. The whole of the North was grieved to hear of their passing.” 

“Thank you, my lady,” Sansa said. “Your condolences are most kind.”

“Come, Sybelle,” Lord Glover said not unkindly. “Our vistors must be tired from their journey and have no wish to be reminded of their loss.” 

“Of course, of course,” she said, collecting herself. “Come in. I hope the journey was not too arduous.” 

“We were fortunate to have fine weather,” Jon replied. 

The Glovers had a reception of cold meats, cheeses, and bread for their guests, with some hot tea to warm them after their journey. Deepwood castle was cozy and warm and after a maidservant showed Sansa to her room, she had easily drifted off to sleep until it was time to dress for dinner. 

The ball would not be for another four days, but the Glovers had invited their most distinguished guests to reside at the castle, so an air of festivity pervaded as visitors arrived. They spent their time eating elaborately prepared meals and playing card games and charades. At night, Sansa would be called upon to play the harp or the piano. Jon, Sansa, Arya, and Gendry managed to slip away most afternoons to go for walks. Both men were not accustomed to high society, and while the nobles of the North were more relaxed in their manners than their counterparts in the South, it was nevertheless, at times, overwhelming for them, especially Gendry who had been inducted into this life only as recently as his marriage. And Arya, who had grown up a lady, had never embraced the etiquette and propriety expected of her and told Sansa repeatedly that the whole thing was quite exhausting. 

“How do you do it?” she had asked her sister. 

“Do what?”

“Be prim and polite all the time.” 

“I am afraid that I never learned to be otherwise.” 

Though Arya would never admit it, she was secretly impressed at the ease with which Sansa navigated social situations. The way she responded cordially but not flirtatiously to Lord Harold Hardyng and listened to Lady Donella Hornwood tell the same few stories about her late husband and coo of Lady Glover’s son and daughter. Sansa seemed to have won them all over, and one night, when Arya had heard Lady Eleana Glenmore mention the bit of trouble that Lady Stark had gotten herself into down South, Lady Maege Mormont quickly dismissed such talk as a poorer reflection on the silly nobility of the South than on Sansa Stark. The rumors were not mentioned again, at least not for Arya to overhear. 

And Jon, who claimed to prefer the company of common soldiers to highborn lords, was also, Arya was amazed to discover, adept at talking to Lady Barbrey Dustin about advancements in farming techniques and Lord Wyman Manderly about trade routes for White Harbor. 

Jon’s success had also not gone unnoticed by Sansa, who pulled him aside one night while the other noblemen and ladies were playing cards. 

“You are good at this, you know.” 

“At what?” 

“At this. Socializing with the other high lords and ladies, building trust, bolstering alliances.” 

“No,” he scoffed. 

“You are. You are. They respect you. They really do.” 

“I am nowhere near the politician you are, Sansa,” he said. “I do believe you have charmed every lord and lady here.”

“I believe that you are far overestimating my charms.” 

“Not in the least. I do not believe they can be overestimated.”

“I suppose that we make quite a pair then,” she replied archly. 

“I believe we do,” he said, and in that moment, he would have liked to cup her cheek and speak to her of his undeniable affection, which impossibly, seemed to grow greater with each moment he was with her, as well as the time he was not. But such a thing would not be proper in a crowded drawing room, so instead he offered her his arm. “Shall we return to the game?”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a ball.

Then it was the night of the ball. Sansa styled her hair so that it was twisted back into a bun with lose ringlets framing her face. It had been some time since she had dressed this carefully, and she was afraid that she was dreadfully out of fashion and practice. Her mother would likely not approve, but part of Sansa appreciated the simplicity of a style she could arrange herself having not bothered to bring a lady’s maid. She ornamented her hair with a dark blue ribbon that complemented its deep auburn and nestled the dragonfly comb that Jon had given her carefully beside her bun. Her dress was simple but becoming, white silk with white embroidery in a pattern of wolves. It had swooping neckline that displayed just a hint of her breasts, with a ribbon, of the same deep blue that she had tied in her hair, beneath her bust and accentuating her slim figure and the gown’s high waste. 

Arya arrived in her room just as Sansa was finished dressing. Her sister’s dress matched her own, though with a forest green ribbon instead of blue, and Sansa helped her to style and smooth her hair before meeting their gentlemen. Arya complained about Sansa’s pulling and twisting, but her sister hushed her.   
“Even Gendry is not going to recognize you, sister,” Sansa said with a smile. 

“What the devil are you doing to me?” Arya replied. “I am not trying to disguise myself from my own husband. I am still quite fond of him you know.” 

“Hush,” Sansa said. “You look very pretty.” And she noticed that despite her sisters grumbling and complaints, Arya looked rather pleased when she glanced herself in the mirror. 

Sansa and Arya met Jon and Gendry who were waiting to escort them. 

“I do not think I have ever seen you look so much a lady,” Gendry teased as Arya greeted him, but Sansa could not help but take a little satisfaction in the admiring look he bestowed upon her little sister. 

“Oh, do shut up,” Arya said, playfully punching his arm. “You see, I am not a lady at all.” 

“My mistake,” he said, offering her the very arm she had just assaulted. 

She glanced at him appreciatively. “You on the other hand, could easily be mistaken for a fancy person,” she jested as they walked away. 

Jon had become painfully aware of Sansa’s beauty during his time residing at Winterfell, but he felt fully unprepared for the vision she presented as she approached. 

“Sansa,” Jon said, offering her his arm. “You look beautiful. Truly… beautiful,” he repeated feeling the fool as he fumbled for words. 

“And you look quite dashing yourself, Captain Snow,” she said playfully, taking his arm. And he most certainly was dashing. She had never seen him so formerly attired, and she was taken aback by just how pleasing she found his appearance. She had long realized that her cousin was a handsome man, but in the causal domesticity of Winterfell, she was accustomed to see him in half dress. Evening dress suited him well indeed. 

“You are wearing the comb,” he observed, awkwardly, hoping that his face was not nearly as red as it felt. 

“I am glad to have finally had an opportunity to,” she replied. “It is too lovely to wear on ordinary occasions.” 

“Not nearly so lovely as you,” Jon said with a nervous smile and he noted that the blush in her checks now rivaled his own. Of course, it only made her even more beautiful. 

He had never felt a bigger fool. He was no good at flirting. With Ygritte things had been different. She had been so forward; he had not had the opportunity to court her. But with a lady like Sansa, everything was different. He was attempting to be charming and witty and he was afraid that he was making a rather poor show of it. But a woman as beautiful as Sansa Stark deserved to be flirted with a bit, and he had resolved that tonight he would tell her of his affection and he was going to do his damnedest to persuade her to at least to entertain his suit. 

The ballroom was crowded when Jon and Sansa arrived. The dancing had begun and the room was sweltering from the presence and exertion of so many bodies. Arya and Gendry were already bungling their way through a dance, grinning at each other as they stepped repeatedly on each other’s feet and bumped into more than one of the other dancers. Sansa had done her best to teach them both the steps, but they had only a short time to learn and there had been much else to do and were both really quite hopeless. However, they did not seem to mind even as the other dancers gave them a wide berth. 

“Lady Stark,” Harold Hardyng called to her as they entered. “I hope that you will do me the honor of dancing the first quadrille with me.” 

“Lord Hardyng,” Sansa said politely. “Well, you see, I…” She searched for the politest way to reject the young man’s advances. 

“I am afraid that she has already pledged herself to me, my lord,” Jon said smoothly. 

“I see,” Lord Hardyng replied. “Then perhaps the second.” 

“Perhaps,” Sansa said airily as she moved further into the ballroom and away from him. 

When he was certain Lord Hardyng was out of earshot, Jon turned to Sansa. “I do believe that the young Lord Hardyng is quite besotted with you.” 

“I think he is more besotted with my brother’s dukedom.” 

“The he is an idiot,” Jon said. “If he does not see that you are worth more than all the Stark lands.” 

“I’m afraid that in general lands are deemed much more valuable with women.” 

“Only among men who do not understand where true value lies.” 

His eyes held hers, their look earnest and intense and she felt her stomach flutter and tighten. “Jon. I appreciate your gallantry,” she said, changing the subject, “but you do not need to dance with me.”

“It is no trouble.” 

“And your leg?” 

“It will be fine, Sansa. I have been well healed for the past few months. I do not anticipate a relapse this evening.” He paused for a moment. “Unless, of course, you do not care to dance,” he said with a look that surprised Sansa with its disappointment and dejection. 

She had not danced since King’s Landing and had sworn that she never would again. But that all felt so long ago and now she was here with Jon and she could not so easily dismiss the prospect of a dance with him. She felt giddy and light headed, and she was not sure if it was from the champagne she had been sipping or the way Jon was flirting with her. At least, she was almost entirely certain he was flirting. It was always so hard to tell with him. 

“I believe I would quite enjoy a dance,” she replied just as the notes of the quadrille began to play. 

“I am certain I would as well.” 

Jon lead her to the dance floor, and she found that he was a decent dancer. Not as elegant nor as skilled as some of the other men she had danced with at King’s Landing, but he was an attentive partner and his hand felt right in hers. 

When the quadrille ended, they danced a La Boulangere together, and then Lord Hardyng approached her about dancing the scotch reel and she could not refuse him without being dreadfully uncivil. She then danced with Harrion Karstark and Ned Umber, and Cley Cerwyn asked shyly for a cotillion. Even as she danced with the other lords, though, she kept Jon in her sight. He seemed to prefer sitting out to dances, though when Alys Karstark was without a partner for a reel, he was a proper gentleman and inquired if he might serve as a partner. 

She lost sight of him as the musicians were changing tunes. And then she felt herself being forcefully spun around, a hard hand gripping hers. 

“Lady Stark,” the man before her snarled her name, his cold blue eyes bearing into her, as he swung her into the dance. “Whatever is the matter? One bastard is as good as another, is it he not? And rumors have it that you are quite improperly intimate with that bastard cousin of yours.” 

“You are hurting me, my lord,” she said. 

“Am I?” he replied without loosening his grip. “Pity.” 

“What do you want of me?”

“I wanted to be your husband,” he sighed theatrically and then barked a bitter laugh. “But it seems that I was not worthy of the Lady Stark of Winterfell.” 

“Lord Bolton,” Sansa said with disdain. 

“Oh, so you do remember. And here I had believed that you had broken my heart and promptly forgotten about me.” 

“Unhand me,” she hissed. 

“No. I don’t think I will.” 

“If you do not release me, Lord Bolton, I swear that I shall scream.” 

“I wish you would, Lady Stark,” he leaned in and she could feel his breath, hot and sour against her cheek. “I do so enjoy it when they scream,” he said as he leered at her. “But I do not think you actually will. Sansa Stark would not dare make a spectacle of herself at yet another ball, would she?”

She looked desperately around the room, trying to locate Jon. Surely if he saw that she was in distress he would come to her aid. But when she finally caught sight of him he was deep in conversation with a strikingly beautiful woman with honey-colored hair and blue eyes, and Sansa could not help but notice the intimate, tender way in which he held her hands and gazed into her eyes. And she did not know what hurt more, the painful grip that Ramsay had on her hands or the sudden, throbbing ache in her chest, but all that she knew was that she had to escape of this ballroom. 

“No. I didn’t think so. The manner in which the other lords fawn all over you, one would think you were the finest lady in the North.” His laugh was cruel and cutting. “Would not want to ruin your reputation.”

“I command you to let me go.”

“Is that so.” He leaned toward her again. “Just remember, my lady, I was willing to wed you when you were nothing more than the Prince’s discarded whore. And I do not relish taking another man’s leavings, even if he is a prince.”

Sansa felt her breath catch and her pulse quicken. She was out in the garden again and the princes hands were on her and she could not get away and could not breath. 

She looked wildly around the room. Gendry and Arya were dancing and laughing and Jon was still talking with that other woman. Even Lord Hardyng was occupied dancing with a giggling girl from one of the minor houses. 

No one was coming to rescue her from this man and his cruel words and horrid insinuations.

Ramsay was still talking, but Sansa paid him no heed, instead focusing on the steps of the dance. The steps dictated that she draw nearer to him, and as she did, she let out a swift kick to his shin. It was not a hard blow, but it startled him enough that he stumbled back and broke his grip on her hand. She managed to avoid him when he lurched for her again, saying something about the dance not being over. The others dancing near had not noticed her assault, and it appeared only that he had fumbled the steps of the dance. While attention was on him, she backed away and toward one of the ball room’s egresses. She was afraid he would pursue her, but he seemed as unwilling to make any more a scene as she was—to do so would have only revealed his discourteous behavior toward her. She glanced back at Jon one last time, before slipping out the French doors and into the Glover’s garden. She ran down one of the paths, her breath clouding before her and her heart beating so hard in her chest she was certain it would break.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sansa is followed on the garden path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments and kudos. You inspired me to finish this chapter earlier than I had planned. I hope you enjoy!

It was peaceful in the Glover’s garden, and cold, but Sansa was still warm and flushed from dancing and panic and the bracing chill felt good against her skin. She stood for a moment, breathing in the frigid night air, and fighting back tears and trying to get her pounding pulse to quiet. 

She was such a stupid girl. When would she start believing men, who were clearly not, to be in love with her? 

She turned quickly, hearing the crunch of snow and gravel and fearing that it was Ramsay, she tensed and prepared to run again, though she did not know to where she might flee. But it was Jon and she was equal parts relieved and pained to see him. 

“I am sorry, Sansa,” he said, rushing to her, embracing her, his heart breaking at the anger and hurt and fear in her expression. “Thank the gods that you were not hurt,” he continued, pulling away so that he could take her in, as if to assure himself that she was indeed whole and unharmed, his words a panicked tumble. “I saw him… and your escape. I am sorry I did not intervene. I did not see until… I was too late. I swear that if he every lays so much as another finger on you again…. I will kill him.”

She took a deep breath to steady herself and turned away from him, before replying. “Jon. I am going to ask you to leave me now and not to swear things or make promises you do not intend to keep.” 

“What? No, Sansa. No,” he said, and she could hear the hurt and confusion in those words.

“I saw you and you seemed quite preoccupied with a very handsome woman. I expect that she is still waiting for your return. I am pleased for you, Jon.” Try as she might, she could not keep the quiver from the last of her words. 

“Sansa,” he said gently. “What exactly are you talking about?”

“When Ramsay had me, I looked to you. I saw you with another woman. You seemed rather intimate.” 

He exhaled heavily. “Val,” he said. “Of course. Sansa, I know Val, well she is Lady Massey now, from my time at the front. She was from the same village as Ygritte. They were close, grew up together. Though she, at least, had the foresight and good sense to leave before the fighting came to her. She married an officer, Massey, a fool with a commission and more ambition than sense.” He paused. “I had not seen her since… she was asking me about Ygritte. About what had become of her. I had to tell her… she did not know.” 

“Oh, Jon,” she shifted to face him, her face growing hot from the embarrassment of it all. “How very stupid of me, I should not have presumed... I am terribly sorry.”

“There is no need to apologize. I know how it must have appeared. In fact, damn it, Sansa, it is I who should apologize to you. I promised to protect you from harm and faltered when you needed me most.” 

“No harm came to me. If I have no need to apologize, then you do not as well.” 

She shivered suddenly, the thin fabric of her gown doing little to shield her from the cold night air that seemed finally to touch her. The ball might be in celebration of the end of winter, but its frost had not yet fully departed. “You must be freezing,” he said. “We should return.” 

“Not yet,” she replied. “I am not quite ready to return.” She could not face the crowded ballroom, the laughter and conversation, the twirling dancers, him. Not yet. 

“Then, please take this,” he said and he removed his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. She knew that it was not proper for Jon to be in such a state of undress in front of her, but it was not as though, when she was caring for him, she had not seen him in his shirtsleeves plenty of time. Though that, of course, was quite a different situation, and were anyone to come across them like this, it would be fodder for scandal. Still, the night air was cold and his jacket was warm from the heat of his body and smelled of him. She pulled it tighter around herself. 

“Perhaps we should walk,” she said. “It will keep us both warm.” 

He offered her his arm and she took it, using the pretense of the cold to draw close to him.

“How did manage to escape from Ramsay Bolton’s clutches, despite my miserable failure to keep my promise to protect you?” he asked. “I saw he stumble, but could not quite make out the cause.”

“I kicked his shin,” she said simply. 

He grinned. “I hope you wounded him terribly.”

“I wish I had. He is certainly deserving of it. But, alas, I believe that I did little more than startle him.”

“Still, Lady Stark, it seems that you have no need for me to protect you. You seem quite capable of caring for yourself without my assistance.” 

“Perhaps. Though I do not think I am willing to relinquish your protection quite yet.”  
“Then I had best continue to offer my service. Beside I am not sure how well my leg would bear up under such an attack should I refuse,” he paused. “Sansa, I…” he started to say just as she started speaking as well. He gestured for her to continue. 

“Does that mean that we are friends again?” 

“We are.” 

“Good. Though I do feel rather foolish.” 

He stopped and turned to face her, taking a deep and nervous breath. Now was the time, and he would not squander yet another opportunity to confess his feelings to her. “Sansa, the only thing you should feel foolish about is believing that it is at all possible that I could feel affection for any woman other than you.” He took her hands in his. “During our time together, I have come to admire you, to love you ardently and passionately and I can no longer conceal my admiration for you. If all you desire of me is friendship, I shall give it to you gladly, but is it at all possible that your feelings toward me are at all similar?”

“Do you doubt for a moment that they are?” 

“You feel the same? Say so and put me out of the torment of uncertainty. Is it at all possible that you could love me?”

“I do. Oh Jon, of course I love you. How could I not?” 

He breathed a sigh of relief and smiled, though it faltered a bit. “Sansa, I know that, well, the condition of my birth… I know that I am unworthy of wedding a Lady such as yourself…” 

Sansa interrupted abruptly him. “Jon,” she said. “Do not be an idiot. You are worthy. You are the finest, most worthy man I know. And I would be mad not to want to wed a man like you, especially when I love you so. It would be an honor and a joy to marry you, Jon.” She paused. “That is, of course, if that is what had intended to ask.”

“I believe it was,” he said with a chuckle. 

“Good.” She beamed at him. “It seems that it is quite settled then.” 

“So it does,” Jon said, returning her grin. “May I kiss you, Sansa?”

“Please do.” 

He embraced her and his kiss was soft and gentle and yet promised so much more and she was filled with a glowing heat despite the winter chill. She felt him smile against her mouth and then he touched his forehead to hers. “So, it seems that I am an idiot and a fool twice over for not speaking of my attachment sooner.”

“I wish you had. I imagine it would have saved us both rather a lot of unnecessary pining and uncertainty,” she said. “Now please kiss me again. And do not ever stop. We have much time to make up for.” He was happy to oblige and did so quite thoroughly. 

“Well, then, I suppose the rumors are true.” Sansa had been so lost in Jon, his arms around her, his lips, which were soft as she remembered, on hers that she had not noticed the man approach. Startled, they parted to see Ramsay Bolton before them. “Sansa Stark does favor bastards. Very much so from the look of what I have interrupted.”

“Lord Bolton, I thought I had made myself quite clear. Your attentions are unwelcome,” she said, mustering the haughty courtesy that Jon remembered and wearing it like armor. 

“And this one hasn’t even been legitimized. Was that the problem, then? I was not bastard enough for you, Lady Stark?” he continued, ignoring her remonstrations. 

“I believe the lady told you to leave,” Jon said, his hand clenched at his side. 

“Oh, she is no lady. This is, what, the second garden in which she has been found alone with a man in a very compromising situation? And you, bastard, in such a state of undress. It is all quite unseemly, isn’t it?” He made a tsking sound and shook his head. “I wonder what would you mother and father say? They would likely die of shame. That is, of course, had they not been dead already. It is probably for the best.” 

“A fate that you will long for if you do not absent yourself presently.” Jon took a step forward. 

“Do you want wish to strike me, bastard? I wish you would. I would love to return to the ballroom bloodied so that I could tell them all how a low-born bastard dared to strike a gentleman.” 

“You a no gentleman,” Sansa said, placing a hand on Jon’s arm. “It matters not what titles you hold. You will never be anything but an ill-bred cur.” 

“Do you dare to address me in such a manner, you little slut?” 

“Choose a second, Lord Bolton. We settle this two days hence. Swords or pistols. I’ll let you decide.” 

“You want a duel?”

“It is my privilege to defend Lady Stark’s honor and you will answer for your insults. Let’s settle this the old way. You against me.” 

“I keep hearing stories about you, bastard. The way the blokes in the Night’s Watch talk, you are one of the greatest soldiers who ever walked. The finest swordsman and the sharpest mark with a pistol. Maybe you are that good. Maybe not.”

“There is a simple way to determine an answer for yourself.”

“Oh, I do not intend to find out. I am not going to fight you, bastard.” 

“Do you apologize?”

“Never. Not to you or your highborn whore.” 

“You are a coward, then,” Sansa said. “If you do not apologize or do not fight, you dishonor yourself. You dishonor the name of Bolton, which are so proud to wear. What little honor it had left, at least.” 

“You utter any word against Lady Stark, if you ever dare to speak her name, lay a hand on her, or so much as look at her, the entire world will know you refused my challenge.” Jon promised. “And after that, I will kill you.”

They walked back to the ballroom, their hands clasped, leaving Ramsey Bolton alone in the garden. Jon danced another set with her, an indication to all of the other young men that he held a special place in her affections. They spoke little of Lord Bolton, who glowered at them sullenly from across the ballroom, paying him no mind; their happiness was too great to be so easily dampened and they were too busy gazing into each other’s eyes to really notice him at all. After her set with Jon, Sansa refused all other dances, claiming that she felt quite exhausted after so much excitement. But the truth of it was that she was loathe to leave Jon’s side now that she had rightly claimed her place with him. 

And when, later that evening, some of the guests gathered around the piano, she sat with Jon standing beside her, and for the first time, in a long time, Sansa sang.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which this story comes to its conclusion.

By the next morning, rumors had spread throughout the Motte, whispered gossip that it seemed that, if their behavior at the ball was any indication, Lady Stark and Captain Snow had had formed an attachment and it was speculated that an announcement of their intention to wed might be expected rather sooner than later. Did you not see, they asked, how she glowed during their second set and the way that he gazed on her like there were no was no one else in the world to see? The way she had not left his side for a moment and how he had stood next to the piano while she played and sang so beautifully? 

Lady Glover smiled indulgently when she saw Jon and Sansa in quiet conversation and nudged Lady Mormont, pleased that she could, at least in part, take credit for the young people’s blossoming romance. Lord Manderly, a large jovial fellow, commented to his recently widowed cousin, Lady Hornwood, that it seemed that love was in the air and that perhaps other proposals would follow, which set that fine lady to blushing. Lord Hardyng, however, spent the rest of his visit looking rather glum. And Lord Bolton cut his stay short, leaving quite suddenly the day after the ball. 

Sansa did not tell Arya about Ramsay Bolton until well after his departure. 

“I will murder him!” her sister had exclaimed. 

“I believe that Jon has already claimed that particular honor, sister. And I imagine he will be terribly disappointed if you attempt to usurp him in it.”

“Well, I will just have to murder him again once Jon is through. He has certainly earned more than one extraordinarily painful death. In fact, Gendry will probably desire a go at him as well. He has grown quite protective of his new sister.” Sansa laughed and Arya continued. “Is it true that little weasel refused Jon’s challenge?” 

“He did. From what Jon tells me, Ramsay enjoying killing men, hurting people, but only when he chances little risk of injury himself. He is a bully and a coward.” 

“I hate him. I am so glad that Jon prevented you from marrying him.” 

“I am very glad of that fact as well,” Sansa said with a small and secret smile. She was not quite ready to tell her sister that she had accepted a much better proposal. 

Then it was time to make their farewells and the journey back to Winterfell. The air was still crisp, but the spring thaw had begun and they were all in high spirits to return home. Jon and Sansa were especially eager for the trip to be over, having determined to officially announce their engagement only once they were home but finding it difficult to contain to happiness. Sansa noticed Arya eyeing them suspiciously every time Jon’s hand brushed hers or her eyes found his or they both grinned like idiots for no discernable reason. 

“I knew it! At long last,” Arya had exclaimed, when Sansa had told her of the engagement, and Gendry had clapped Jon on the shoulder and warmly congratulated him, telling him that he was glad that he was to have him as a brother. 

“I suppose, that despite your protestations, I am not to be disappointed after all. Did I not say that you and Jon have been terribly in love with each other? I am glad you finally came to your senses,” Arya said to Sansa when the two were alone, and then continued after a pause. “Though I am quite cross at you for not telling sooner me of your understanding.”  
“I could not bear the carriage ride.” Sansa smiled at her sister. “You would have been positively insufferable.” 

“I would not have been,” Arya protested. But she grinned when Sansa gave her a stern look. “Well, perhaps just a bit insufferable.”

“For how long can I expect you to gloat?”

“A good long while, I expect.” Arya had said, smiling smugly. “I knew that ball would be just the thing. I hope that you appreciate that I wore an actual dress in order to secure your happiness, sister.” 

“I shall never be able to thank you enough.” 

“Be as happy in your husband as I am in mine,” Arya had replied. “That is all of the thanks I shall need.” 

When Jon and Sansa had told Rickon that they would wed, he had looked askance at his hero. “But Jon,” he had said in horror and disbelief, “girls are stupid. And they are no fun whatsoever. They never want to play the best games and they cry all the time. Everyone knows that.” 

“Surely you cannot think such things about your very own sisters,” Jon had chided him gently 

Rickon had acquiesced that his sisters were better than most girls, but he for a few weeks he looked at Jon as though he had gone quite mad, and, whenever he was in Jon’s earshot, which was actually quite often, he could be heard loudly declaring to no one in particular that under no circumstances would he ever be induced to marry. 

“He’ll change his mind, come to accept it,” Jon had assured Sansa. 

“His marriage or ours,” Sansa had replied. 

“Well, both I expect.” 

And Jon was correct on the latter count, as Rickon did take Jon confidentially aside one day and inform him that after much deliberation he had decided that if Jon were going to marry, it was best he marry Sansa, because that meant that he was certain to remain at Winterfell, and Rickon really did not fancy him leaving on account of any other stupid girl. Jon thanked Rickon for his blessing and the little boy warned him about becoming dull, because everyone knew that husbands were much duller sorts of fellows than soldiers, and he hoped that Jon would avoid that fate. Sansa had laughed when Jon had told her, informing him that she too hoped he would never become dull, though she suspected that she would enjoy him rather more as a husband than a soldier. And he had kissed her, quite confirming her suspicions. 

When Jon rode to Wintertown to invite his companions from the Night’s Watch to attend the breakfast that would follow the ceremony, they, at least, more receptive to the match. 

“Turns out you are not quite as daft as we thought,” Edd said with a wide grin, shaking Jon’s hand in congratulations. 

“I would get shot in both my legs if it meant marrying a girl as pretty as Lady Stark,” said Grenn whistfully. 

“And Jon only had to endure the one,” Edd interjected. 

“I suppose you were correct after all, Edd,” Jon said. “I do have all the luck.” 

“At least now you realize what a lucky bloke you are,” said Pyp. “We would be honored to celebrate with you and your Lady.” 

And so the mattered was settled, and after Jon had invited the colonel as well, and as he rode back to Winterfell and toward Sansa, he did truly feel the luckiest man alive. 

“You were right,” Sansa told Bran one night, when she visited him in his rooms. “I did walk in the garden again. And this time it was with someone brave and gentle and strong.”

“I know, sister,” was his reply.

“How does it work, Bran? How do you know what the future?”

He sighed heavily. “I do not just see the future. I also see the past. And sometimes all I see are dreams and nightmares. I was hoping that you and Jon would not be one of those. Just a dream, I mean,” Bran paused. 

“Will you accompany me down the aisle? Father should have, but….” she asked him. He was the most lucid that Sansa had seen him in months.

He nodded. “I would be honored, sister. And once you are wed, you and Jon should move into mother and father’s old room,” he continued. 

“No,” she said. “Those are the Lord’s Chambers. And you are the Lord of Winterfell; they belong, by rights, to you.” 

Bran sighed and shook his head. “I may hold the title of ‘Lord of Winterfell,’ but I am not the Lord. Not really. But you Sansa, you are truly Winterfell’s Lady in all the ways that matter most.” 

The banns were read, and the appropriate amount of time waited. Arya and Gendry had delayed their plans, both agreeing that they would not miss the wedding for all the world. Essos could wait until after Jon and Sansa’s nuptials. 

The morning of the wedding, just as the dawn was breaking, Sansa went down into the crypts of Winterfell. “I know that few would call it a brilliant match for the Duke of Winterfell’s daughter, but I hope that you would be happy for me. There is more to a marriage than titles, and few are so lucky as you and father,” she said the statue of her mother. “I am marrying a good man, the kind of man you would never feel compelled to duel on my behalf, a man I love, a man who you love too,” she said to the statue of her brother. And then she turned to her father’s grave. “Jon is everything you promised me,” she whispered. “He might not be a prince or a duke or a lord, but he is the finest man I know. Please smile down on our wedding today and our marriage in the years to come.” She lit candles before each of the statues and noticing the fresh puddles of wax and spent stubs, she knew that Jon had been there the night before to ask her family’s blessing. 

She wore the same dress she had at the ball and carried a bouquet of wild flowers. The wedding party was small; Jon and Sansa had asked Arya and Gendry to serve as bridesmaid and groomsman and as witnesses to their vows, and only Bran and Rickon, Sam and Gilly, Mr. Luwin and Nan, and Mr. and Miss Poole were in attendance, as were Miss Gilly and Dr. Tarly, who, it seemed, had come to an understanding of their own. Jon looked deeply into Sansa’s eyes, his expression soft, as he solemnly promised to have and to hold her from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish until they were parted in death. When Sansa repeated the words to him, she could not help but notice that Arya’s eyes tearing up, and she determined that she would have to tease her sister later, despite her own eyes being not exactly dry. Jon slipped a gold wedding band on her finger, as he said, “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldy goods I thee endow; in the name of the Father, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Smith, Warrior, and Stranger,” and she had glanced down demurely and blushed very prettily.

After the Septon had officially declared them man and wife and they had signed the register, they walked back from the chapel to Winterfell and, following one of their ancestor’s traditions that the Stark’s still kept, knelt before the heart tree, where they swore their devotion to each other, and he promised her that not all the things that the songs say of love are lies. 

The wedding breakfast was in the Godswood, beneath the hawthorn, its white blossoms in full bloom in the bright spring sun. The servants had brought a large table out to the grove for a simple meal of ham and omelets, bread and cheese, hot rolls and cold meats, and fresh fruit. But Sansa did not care about the modesty of the affair; she was too delighted with the frosted fruitcake which old Nan had liberally soaked in rum and the drinking chocolate. “This better than I could have imagined,” she declared to Jon. 

“I am glad to hear it.” 

“And all of it under our dear old hawthorn.”

Jon leaned toward his wife. “‘Meet me at the sunset down in the green glen,’” he whispered, his lips brushing against her ears.

“You remembered,” she said, beaming at him. 

“How could I forget? It was a gift from a beautiful woman.”

“And one should never forget about those.” 

“No. Especially not when one loves her as I love you.”

He gathered her into his arms and kissed her again to the cheers of Arya, Bran, and Gendry, Dr. Tarly and Miss Gilly, Colonel Mormont and the lads from the Night’s watch, the household staff at Winterfell, and even Rickon, who was so caught up in all of the excitement that he had quite forgotten to protest. Generally, such behavior would be deemed highly improper, but just for today Sansa forgot about being a proper young lady and she returned her husband’s kiss. 

 

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all of you who left kudos and comments on this story. It has been a pleasure to write and all of your support has been amazing. 
> 
> I am sad to have this piece come to an end, but I do have some ideas for a sequel. Though, I probably will not have time to begin writing that until May when my course work is complete. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
